


Out of Parallel Universes

by Holde_Maid



Category: Highlander (Movies), Highlander - All Media Types, Highlander: The Series, The Pretender
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Minor Character Death, Nudity, Trust Issues, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000, Work In Progress, caveat lector
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-14 02:58:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7996054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holde_Maid/pseuds/Holde_Maid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jarod is following a trail of beheadings and thus enters unwittingly the dominion of Immortals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I think I last worked on this in the year 2003... So here and now, I'll try and finish the thing. For now, though, this is a WIP. Chapters 1-6 have been updated, the rest remains to be reworked. Please be patient with me. It's an ongoing process :)
> 
> I've kept Richie out of this fic, assuming that he is somewhere else in the US creating the new identity he'll need for "The Ransom of Richard Redstone".
> 
> \-------------------------- Disclaimer -------------------------  
> No part of the universes of ”Highlander”, ”Pretender”, “Babylon 5” or "Profiler" are mine, nor the bartender Steve from the film ”Jeffrey”, nor yet any feature of the card game “Magic: The Gathering” or of any existing role playing systems such as GURPS.  
> I’m not making any money by using these features here, so please don't sue me. They are here for pleasure and fun entirely, and so is this story.  
> The song lyrics are my own, except for the song ”As Tears Go By”. Should you want to use any of mine, please contact me. Also, Ana Flo is my own brainchild, and I'd love to follow her life, if she's granted one beyond these pages.  
> Finally, although it follows the rules of both universes to the best of my ability, this story as such is still mine. Do not pass it on without these remarks, or without naming me as the author. Feedback can be most gratifying. ;-)  
> \---------------------------- Thanks-----------------------------  
> Thanks to the owners, creators, actors and singer of the above-mentioned series, song and systems for inspiring their respective audiences. Thanks also to all those that helped me make use of this inspiration, who read, beta read and re-read this stuff, provided information, suggestions and ideas: Thank you, Annie, Beckie, Carol, Ria, Gudrun, Toff and surely some more, whom I’ve neglected to mention purely by accident.  
> Still, I am solely responsible for any mistakes or details that should not match those materials (like, presumably, the weekly jam sessions on Saturday and Wednesday at Joe's). Special thanks to the makers of time lines, notably Janeen and the Perriverse (sadly no longer around, it seems), and to Andy Sloane for helping me get things right.
> 
> \--------------------------- Warning ---------------------------  
> This story contains sexual material. I have marked any even remotely adult scenes so that you can evade them. Thus, if you feel offended by the like, or if the law in your country prohibits your reading such stuff, please skip it by simply using the links that take you to the next non-adult part. I promise doing so won't disturb the plot, though you might lose a few character insights.  
> \--------------------------- Personal Remark ---------------------------  
> It was only when I decided to write this crossover that I started to get to know all the characters and their universes intimately.  
> Both universes are inspiring and fun to write in—I hope I managed to make the most of them.
> 
> Have fun reading.  
> SpArrow aka Holde_Maid  
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------

**PROLOGUE**

_**[Seacouver, Port District,** _  
_**Sunday, November 10 th, 1996]** _

_It is a cold night. Mist is drifting in through the streets from the sea._  
_Somewhere in a small dark alley, the sound of metal against metal rings out, as steel clashes against tin alloy. Soundlessly, two bodies move, and a sharp steel edge scratches over asphalt. Two young voices scream when flesh hits flesh and then steel cuts abruptly…_  
_Mist gathers in the alley until it seems almost palpable. Sparks and electric flashes jump from wall to wall, circling two collapsed bodies and exploding the only streetlight. An indefinable noise rumbles, grows, seems to leap at and from the bodies, carrying a silent force, and drowns a single terrified scream._

 

 **_[Blue Cove, The “Centre”,_ **  
**_four days earlier, on Wednesday, November 6 th, 1996[1]]_ **

“Broots, Sydney,” Miss Parker barked. “Hurry! We've got him! He's in a toy factory in Montreal. C'mon, let's go!” She strode out on long lean legs, Dr. Sydney Greene followed. Broots, the computer technician, grabbed his laptop, some additional technical equipment and scurried after them nervously.

 

 -----------Footnote----------------

 _ **[1]**_ Pretender _-wise, we are still in Season 1 (according to_ “ _The Centre: Data Annex_ ” _at the Perriverse –<http://perriverse.dreamhost.com/pretender/annex/timeline.html>)—2 months or so after the pilot episode. I'd say it must be between "Curious Jarod" and "The Paper Clock"). _


	2. Exposition

_**[Seacouver, at Joe's bar,** _  
_**late in the afternoon of the same day _1_]** _

It was quiet at “Joe's”. The bar was still almost empty, and the blues duo that would start off tonight's jam session had not even arrived yet. The comfortably dimmed light provided a necking couple with some privacy, while at the next table two bank clerks discussed the measurements of their respective dream-girls. Apart from these and the solitary half-drunk man at the bar, there was only one more guest.

The well-built dark-haired man had entered the bar in high spirits about half an hour ago and for some reason had retreated to the darkest corner immediately. He had sat there, studying the list of beverages, smiling to himself, for at least ten minutes. Steve, the young waiter-cum-bartender had time to watch him now and then. He was gorgeous. Very fit underneath that black leather jacket. Helping out at Joe's had unexpected perks, it seemed. At length the man looked up until their eyes locked. Steve nodded and went over to take his order.

* _Oh, goodness, this guy must be out of his mind! He comes to Joe's bar, of all places, to drink THAT?*_  he thought a few moments later. However, he served the stranger his Fanta Lemon with the polite smile he gave all customers. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw the man taste the drink cautiously, but with child-like gusto. Well, kinda unusual, but man, the guy was still gorgeous! Likeable, too… He had a cute grin.

Meanwhile, the glass was half empty. It remained on the table, unnoticed, while the dark-haired stranger went through the pile of newspapers he had brought with him. He seemed to be seriously and methodically searching for something, as he only glanced over the titles of each article. Every now and then, he tore out a page and put it aside. Judging by them, he had a morbid taste for decapitated bodies, the waiter noticed as he passed by and risked a curious glance. Too bad he wasn't into vampires, instead, like Steve himself. Oh, well. At least it wasn’t some kind of weird turn-on, for the stranger was clearly saddened by the articles.

Finally, the man tidily folded the pages he had selected, stuffed the whole bunch into the inside pocket of his black leather jacket and emptied his glass in one gulp. He looked grave now. “Another drink, sir?” Steve called out to him from behind the bar, grinning politely. The guest rose and went over to the bar, leaving the newspapers where they lay.

With a sweet frank smile he pointed at the list of beverages: “Can I ask you something? What is Irish Coffee? Surely the climate there must be too cold and wet to grow such a timid plant?”

Steve was perplexed. “You serious?”

“Err …. You see, where I grew up, we didn't get anything of the kind.”

Steve just couldn't help being just a little sarcastic, “Where was that, in an Amish village?”

The stranger looked puzzled. “Amish?”

He shrugged. “Just kidding. Never mind. Irish Coffee is coffee with Irish Whisky. You'll like it," he smiled persuasively. "If you like a drink once in a while, that is,” he added, more cautious on second thought. “By the way, I'm Steve.”

“Hi, my name is Jarod. And I'll try one.”

 

At that moment a grey-haired man entered the bar, resting his weight on a walking stick. Steve greeted him enthusiastically: “Hey, Joe!”

Joe limped over to the bar and asked the young waiter amicably, “Did you take good care of my baby?”

“Sure did! You even have a new guest, man!” The young bartender grinned broadly, while serving the new patron Irish Coffee. “Meet Joe,” he now addressed the guest with a flourish, “owner and bluesman extraordinaire!”

Joe was long past blushing, but his chuckle was tinged with embarrassment at this introduction.

“Hi, I am Jarod!” The dark-haired stranger glanced at a soda-siphon at the bar and added: “Jarod Spring.”

Joe found the curiously deep, rich voice and this simple, friendly way appealing. “Joe Dawson.” He shook the proffered hand and went round the bar to get himself a moderate drink, while in his mind the words “chick magnet” were forming. _2_

“So, this is your bar?” Jarod opened conversation casually. He could hardly have chosen a more gratifying topic, and Dawson nodded with restrained pride. “It's a place to feel comfortable at," Jarod pursued earnestly. "Suits you.” The words had a genuine ring.

Joe looked him right in the eye for a moment and replied simply: “Thanks.” People rarely ever paid such compliments without an ulterior motive. But what was it? What did the guy want? He didn’t exactly look like the sort that asked barkeepers to point out the easy lays.

Meanwhile, Jarod had taken a small object out of a trouser pocket to play with it. A harmonica, Joe thought. Maybe Steve had spotted it too, for he asked: “Are you gonna join the jam session tonight?”

 “Uh ...”Jarod seemed to feel a little uncomfortable. “Not sure if I am quite good enough…” Oh, was that it? Was he just shy about participating?

 _*Okay, can do,*_ Dawson thought. “Oh, come on, at least give it a try,” he encouraged him.

“Ummmm … You sound as if you are not going to let me back out … Are you?” Jarod Spring sounded way younger than his age now.

Steve nodded, laughing. “That's right, just risk it and try.” The waiter seemed to have caught the spirit of the place right away. Not bad. Pity he was available only occasionally, when he wasn't working as a bartender for a catering service.

Jarod shrugged, clearly still unsure of himself. “Well, on your head be it! Anything is better than sitting in that rat-infested hotel I am at; I just don’t want to disappoint the audience.” Then he excused himself and retreated to a remote table to slowly sip his Irish Coffee.

Two hours later the jam session was in full swing. About ten good musicians were there, and Jarod had joined them in several sets with great success. So during a short break Joe asked him: “Man, how long have you been hiding that incredible talent of yours?”

Had the clapping not diminished for a bit, he almost wouldn't have caught the oddly serious tone of voice: “All my life.” But then Jarod grinned and added: “At first even I myself hadn't known it was there.” Pretty contrived for a joke, but maybe the guy was just feeling self-conscious. Fit in with his quickly grabbing the drink he was being served.

The man interested Joe. From the way a musician played one could usually deduct a few things. The way Jarod had improvised tonight told Joe Dawson one thing, at the very least: Jarod must have gone through some really bad times at some point in his life. At the same time the guy had a very child-like air about him… It was intriguing to see a man who played the blues in a way one would rather expect from someone twice his age savor his soft drink with such obvious delight.

Also, it made him look incongruous in his black leather jacket and the no-nonsense haircut. Yeah, incongruous that was just the word for what was worrying him subtly. Joe didn’t get to mull it over, though, because there was another break. Some of the musicians came over for a drink, and together they quietly decided on a surprise for the end of the session.

And so the session ended with a sorrowful tune that moved some of the guests to tears. As Joe sang, his voice was laden with grief. Yet it still carried a strangely hopeful note that he couldn't even explain to himself. He was only barely aware that the audience was giving him their full attention this time around and everyone had ceased chatting.

 _“I've no right to ask for a minute of your time,_  
_Of that I'm well aware._  
_But lucky I do count myself_  
_For the minutes we have shared.”_

One by one, each musician laid down their instrument in the course of the song, until only Joe and Jarod were left. Dawson played the guitar and sang with quiet intensity, while Jarod improvised along, drawing long, infinitely sad notes from the instrument.

 _“Happiness comes easy to me,_  
_Lucky as I am.”_

Then Jarod, too, stopped playing.

Joe's voice sounded utterly lonely, as he finished the chorus acapella, while the stage light went out,

 _“Happiness comes easy to me,_  
_Having known you, ma'am.”_

 

Afterwards, Jarod quickly made himself scarce by disappearing in the direction of the lavatory. He wanted to be alone for a moment, but he was out of luck. Steve followed to congratulate him on his successful debut. “Man, you were great! You should come here more often.” It felt nice, being told that you had done well. At the Centre, excellence was taken for granted, and anything less was considered unworthy.

Jarod turned with a suppressed sigh. “Thanks. I'd like to, actually. This is a great place.” He went over, washed his hands briskly and left, aware of Steve's eyes following him. Why did the waiter watch him?

He could hardly be connected to the Centre; it was too, well, centralized. Personnel was mostly kept in the Centre, probably so they could always keep an eye on each other in perpetual paranoia. No, Steve didn’t fit in with that breed. Yet there was a keen interest in the man’s eyes – benign, Jarod thought, but incomprehensible.

When he returned, he saw Joe standing behind the bar again. He saluted Jarod and offered him a drink. Reluctant to go just yet, Jarod accepted and sat by the bar. “Thanks. That's very kind of you.”

Joe Dawson smiled. “You deserve it.” Jarod hoped so, but thinking of the guilt that weighed on his conscience, he dared not agree. So he just smiled and with a grateful nod accepted the Irish Coffee Joe Dawson put in front of him. Luckily Joe diverted him from his somber mood and the bitter-sweet taste of the drink by asking Jarod if was new in town. Soon they chatted casually with Steve and the musicians that had joined them at the bar.

 

  ** _[Montreal, HappiPlay Toy Factory,_ **  
**_at roughly the same time]_ **

“You're arresting us?” Miss Parker demanded, suppressing quite an amount of both sentiment and epithets in her own interest. “On what grounds?”

The obese policeman took the little red notebook from her that she had only just acquired from the janitor. He opened it and gave a satisfied grunt. Turning the open book toward her, he showed her the newspaper cut-outs pasted onto its pages in the neat, chronological order that she had become so familiar with during the last few weeks. The titles “Blackmailer at large” and “HappiPlay in Unhappy Affair” told her less than he seemed to presume, for he said: “Obviously you know what I'm talking about—that booklet really puts the lid on!”

 

**_[Seacouver, at Joe's bar]_ **

Jarod chuckled. “They say to find out the secrets of a town you must work in a bar.” Not the best possible opening gambit, but it would have to do.

In his own candid way Dawson asked: “Looking for a job, then?”

The idea took Jarod off-guard. “Err...That is not what I had thought of…" His mind was racing. Was this the break he was looking for? Or would this be a hindrance instead? "...but now that you mention it…” He turned his glass in his hands thoughtfully. “That could be fun. Do you have a job to offer?”

Dawson answered non-committally. “Not right now. Maybe another day. What _had_ you thought of?” A slightly suspicious note had found its way into Joe's tone of voice that Jarod didn't quite comprehend. There still were a lot of things out there that he had yet to learn about.

So he answered carefully: “It's perhaps unusual to ask, but I heard barkeepers always know the best lawyer, the best dentist, the best doctor and the best real estate agent in town. Is that true?”

In the mean-time Steve had served a small party of guests that had just come in together. Returning, he overheard Jarod's question and joked: “Whoever said it never worked in a bar. We just get to see the people with the worst aches and sorrows, when they try to drown them in alcohol.” Laughing lightly, he moved over to pour someone a drink.

“He has a point there,” Joe commented, wagging his salt-and-pepper head. “We rather know who is _not_ good. But what exactly are you looking for?”

“I plan to stay in Seacouver for a while and need to rent a place. I’m definitely not staying at this horrid hotel I'm stuck with for tonight.”

Dawson nodded understandingly and shrugged. “Sorry.”

“Not a problem. Thanks, anyway.” Jarod rose and sighed. “Guess it's time to go.”

“Come back any time,” Joe Dawson invited him. The kindness in his voice was soul-soothing. “And…” He hesitated. “How can I let you know in case I do have a flat or job to offer you?”

“I'll come around every few days, in any case, I guess. I like this place,” Jarod replied with feeling.

 

  ** _[Seacouver, at Joe's bar,_ **  
**_Saturday, November 9 th, 1996]_ **

Three days later Jarod was back, with a much smaller heap of newspapers, retreating into the darkest corner immediately after ordering a Fanta Orange. He needed some privacy to finish filling his notebook.

On serving his drink, Steve asked if he could spare a moment for Joe. Joe looked worried. Jarod nodded and came over to the bar. “Hi, good to see you.” Joe obviously meant this more than was to be expected under the circumstances.

So Jarod answered: “Hi. Anything I can do for you?”

Joe scowled. “Actually, yes. Tonight a little funk band was supposed to play here and get the jam session started—you know, just a singer, a guitar, drums and a bass. And the singer, Tony, is hoarse. He said he'd try and come here, but…" He contorted his features into a rather comical apologetic smile. "Could you help out?”

Jarod smiled. “Sure, I'd love to. Look,…” He looked up at him. “You won't leave me alone up there?”

“I'll join you for a few sets. Can't be on stage the whole evening, obviously,” he rejoined apologetically. The arrangement was fixed with shake-hands. Joe didn't look quite relieved, though, the younger man noticed.

The singer did arrive a while later, but his voice was in no condition for an evening of singing. Jarod ordered a special mixture for him, whispering the recipe to Steve. Steve giggled; He obviously enjoyed serving this ill-smelling concoction and talking Tony into drinking it. The singer disposed of it as quickly as possible.

The session went well – apparently Dawson found Jarod's improvisations just as amazing as the last time. In his mind, though, Jarod didn't see them as his own improvisations, as he was only doing this by becoming someone else. Another reason to feel guilty. To even out the score, he did not accept his share of the money they had earned.

When he called the next day to see if he was needed again, he learned that this had endeared him to Tony, not to mention that Tony’s voice was restored enough to sing the gig at Joe's that night, and the singer swore it was all due to Jarod’s recipe. Joe sounded entertained as he relayed Tony’s praise.

 

 _**[Paris, at a funeral in an almost empty church,** _  
_**Sunday, November 10 th, 1996, early in the afternoon]** _

Something was wrong.

Sometimes, when one was sad, one would like to withdraw into a small dark soft cave, curl up under the blanket perhaps, and just feel comforted. But that wasn't what he felt like.

Sometimes it was different, and one just sat tearless and immobile, infinitely sad, but passively so. That wasn't it, either.

Sometimes one just wanted to cry out, fiercely and passionately. But he felt neither childishly, nor quietly, nor passionately sad. Instead and worse than these, there was nothing. He was numb, almost as if his heart had been drugged at the core. It had the same strange quality as watching an operation performed on ones own limbs with a local anesthetic. He knew he ought to feel _some_ thing, yet simply didn't. Outwardly he appeared to be his usual cheerful friendly self. In his own mind, however, he knew something was deeply wrong. He was merely functioning.

He had been hurt often in his long life. Usually, you had to pass through the core of the pain to come out on top of it. Only then would the pain lessen. Now, alas, he was out of touch with himself, with the pain—numbed, deadened… He must get through to his true feelings before he could move on. He must get back in control. He must recall whatever it was that hurt him so bad his subconscious tried to suppress it. He would have to coax it into remembering again or into releasing the pain itself, anyway.

At least he had some experience with situations such as this—he knew well enough how to go about them.

 

 **_[Seacouver, South City District,_ **  
**_at about the same time]_ **

Jarod was walking the street aimlessly, rather lost in thought, when suddenly he brightened up. Music was floating about. He turned to follow it. Apparently it came from a small store.

Yes, indeed! Two men were playing the displayed instruments, oblivious to the audience they were slowly drawing. One, a Mexican, was enticing a balalaika to produce something best described as a sound carpet. The other, darker in complexion and taller, added sparkle to this carpet, so to speak. He played an obviously hand-made cross between a lute and a guitar.

Impulsively, Jarod entered the store. He picked up a small drum and ought their eye. Getting a smile and a nod, he accompanied the men. After a while the impromptu jam session stopped, and the two men broke into bilingual chatter, discussing the merits of those instruments. Soon they took notice of Jarod again - and invited him to join the conversation. It turned out that the Mexican was trying to sell the hand-made instrument to the other man, who claimed to be quite the star in Morocco.

In the end, the Moroccan star only bought some sheet-music, but three hours later Jarod left the shop with 15 different musical instruments and in high spirits. The Mexican said good-bye with a contented smile.

 

 **_[Montreal, a prison cell_ **  
**_at about the same time]_ **

“Sydney,” Broots asked, “D'you think Jarod framed us?” Broots always avoided addressing Miss Parker if he could help it. Sydney was okay. One felt relatively safe with him. He was about as emotional as a stone – a welcome contrast to Miss Parker, who was a walking volcano, smoking hot and deadly.

For a moment the Centre psychologist’s kind gaze rested on Broots contemplatively, as Sydney pondered the idea. Then Sydney Greene shook his grey-haired head. His oddly young-looking features betrayed no emotion when he quietly told the technician, “He's angry with us for trying to get him back, but this isn't quite like him. —Don't worry. Miss Parker has already alerted the Centre lawyers. We should be free by Monday or Tuesday.”

 

 **_[Seacouver, at Joe's bar,_ **  
**_Monday, November 11 th, 1996]_ **

The next day, Jarod returned with a red notebook filled with newspaper cut-outs inside his black leather jacket. He went over to the bar to chat with Joe and Steve. Steve, however, wasn't there. He was only an occasional back-up to Joe's regular bartender Mike, Jarod learned. Joe Dawson was presiding at the bar, though, and asked if Jarod had found a place to stay at.

“Yes, luckily. – How could it be that Seacouver should have such a low real estate market?” Jarod asked. “I mean, it wasn't easy to find a decent flat. And now it's getting worse, if anything.” He sighed. “I need to rent a room for a couple of hours where I can work out and move about—something spacious. The agency I tried couldn't even find me a warehouse for what I am willing to pay! Perhaps I had better do that myself again.”

Joe remained silent, listening and sympathizing, it seemed. When Jarod fell silent, he said: “Well, if you're good at this kind of thing, Seacouver surely could use a good estate agent." Then a thought obviously struck him: "Why don't you go to an ordinary gym?”

“Frankly, I hate being watched—all those mirrors…” He shuddered.

Dawson smiled, but Jarod got the distinct impression that he was debating with himself, before he stated, “A friend of mine has a little dojo. I can ask him if you could perhaps rent it on an hourly basis. If you ring me here in a couple of days, I'll let you know.”

“Wow, that would be great! Thank you very much!” Surprise and thankfulness surged through Jarod - he had rarely ever felt the two together. The Centre routines were rarely surprising, and even more rarely pleasant. He brushed the thought aside, not letting it tinge the sweet taste of Dawson's thoughtfulness. Instead he made a mental note that he needed to find out what, exactly, a dojo was, where Seacouver's several dojos were located, and which ones could provide escape routes, if necessary.

At this point a young woman came in, carrying a dark suitcase. Her complexion was olive and her smile warm and wide. She waved to Joe and Mike, the bartender, before hauling the suitcase onto the little stage in the far corner. A moment later, the rest of her blues band arrived. Joe Dawson went over to greet them and help put their equipment together in time. Jarod was left to his own devices and started leafing through his notebook.

 

Later, after Jarod had left, Joe Dawson got busy on the phone.

He called one of the Watchers, who during the last days had tried to find out information about Jarod Spring. Dawson had decided that whatever he did, he was kind of interfering anyway. And besides, Jarod seemed to be the most good-natured guy imaginable. And too child-like rather than too old for his age. Anyhow, try whatever approach Dawson could think of, Spring had remained a nonentity, as far as the organization was concerned. Now Joe was calling to make sure that nothing had turned up meanwhile. The person at the other end of the line knew nothing about Jarod or any Immortal of his description having come to town. Dawson sighed relief. That meant he could recommend the man to his friend. He would have been sorry to disappoint him. Next, Joe tried to call the friend who owned the dojo, Duncan. However, nobody answered the phone.

 

 

 

\------------------ FOOTNOTES

 ** _1_** Highlander _-wise, this brings us to Season 5, just after_ “ _Revelation 6:8_ ” _and, roughly, 3 months before_ “ _Duende_ ”  
_(Source:_ “ _Janeen‘s Highlander Website_ ” _–_<http://users.erols.com/darkpanther/TL_S5.htm> _)_

 ** _1_** For HL fans who wonder: This is rather an inside joke for the Pretender fans, since Michael T. Weiss, the actor who played Jarod, called his eco-friendly car that. ;-) 


	3. Introduction

_**[Scotland, Cairngorm Mountains** _  
_**at about the same time[1]]** _

Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod, was sitting on the top of a mountain a few thousand miles away, meditating and breathing the clean, fresh mountain air that was taking his mind back to his home.

MacLeod was an Immortal. Not the oldest and probably not the strongest, but he had managed to survive for over 400 years and his chances of survival seemed to be growing with every century. The only way one can kill an Immortal for good is to cut off his head. Otherwise, he will always come back to life. His physical wounds would always heal. But what he had come here for was the strength to deal with wounds in his heart, with memories, and with questions he needed to answer.

The afternoon before a numbing depression had taken hold of him that was something else entirely than the natural reaction to the past, extremely turbulent, days. Therefore, he would now have to hunt his own pain before he could hunt or fight anyone else.

It had been time for a retreat. If at the moment he had been challenged, he might have lacked the necessary passion to take the other's head. If there were a proper challenge, however, he would have to accept it eventually and fight a fight to the death—if he could. Those were the Rules that no Immortal could break or escape. They all were part of an eternal deadly tournament they euphemistically called “The Game”, some hunting Immortals with zest, others fighting only when they must.

Solely Holy Ground provided refuge from the Game—temporarily.

This place wasn’t Holy Ground, although it was sacred to him. It was close to his true home. It _was_ his home, in a way. Over the centuries he had found out that no place could ever become home unless ones heart was at rest. His little dojo was as much his home as was the loft he lived in above it, or his houseboat, the barge he owned in Paris. But up here… Places like this were what _allowed_ them to be home, where he found the peace that sometimes just got … lost. Lost in the tangles of life.

The Highlands were the permanent eye in the storm that was Duncan MacLeod’s life.

He inhaled the air deeply. It smelled, it felt like home—like the Highlands as he had known them, now far removed in time, if close in location. The Highlands of that time were his home of homes. There he had been born and raised. There-fore he was proud of his name, of his heritage and of being referred to as “The Highlander” by other Immortals. That was why he had travelled to Scotland, hiked up here to a spot that commanded a view of his homeland. Here he sat and sank deeper and deeper into a meditation that freed his mind, and brought calm.

Deeper and deeper, until he was in a lucid dream-like state.

For a moment he saw himself in a flash, at an age of two or three, playing with fresh hazelnuts, sitting beside a stream.

The shiny surfaces made one want to touch them, but one was clumsy at this age. One of the nuts fell into the stream and one looked down into the cold dark pool it had fallen into. It was pleasant to watch the face down there … Dark and distorted by the waves, it looked funnily estranged.

Then the memory faded, as a more recent one took its place.

He saw himself—two versions of himself, both in the same room, defying time, facing one another, talking. One was only thirteen, naïvely self-assured and rather charming. The other himself much as he was now, fully-grown, Immortal and perhaps a trifle envious of that naïveté.

A third memory appeared before his closed eyes, and it caused him to utter a faint cry of loss. He saw his mother, her eyes. He heard her voice speak words that were forever etched into his brain: “It matters not who bore you, you are my son … Let no man tell you different: You are Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.”

The only question these memories had answered was as to his identity. But by now he had no doubt of that anymore. They strengthened him, in a way, but he had not come to gain strength, either. So he patiently waited for his subconscious to provide what he needed, as it always did. And finally, unexpectedly, another memory broke the tranquility he had fought so hard to achieve.

Laughter.

He was a little boy again, watching one of his peers play peek-a-boo with his baby sister.

As the image dissolved, he blinked, utterly puzzled.

 

An hour later his mobile phone rang. Untypically, Duncan swore, for he had found no peace, only more mystery and exhaustion.

The call itself was mysterious as well, as he could hear a friend's voice, but the connection was appallingly bad. He mainly heard disconnected syllables, among which two words stood out: “Seacouver” and “urgent”, and even those were only barely discernible. He tried and tried, but the connection just did not get any better before he could catch a flight back to Seacouver.

On landing, he was buying a newspaper while he tried to call back again without success. He was about to leave a message when a picture on the third page caught his attention. It was a drawing of a boy—a boy he knew to be an Immortal named Kenny.

Apparently, Kenny was dead. He rang off.

His friend had cared about Kenny. Obviously, his death must have induced her to call. For the moment there was nothing he could do. So he deliberately shoved any thought of her aside and concentrated on getting a cab.

 

**_[Seacouver, Duncan MacLeod's loft,  
Wednesday, November _ ** **_13 th, 1996]_ **

When the Highlander returned to his home, at last, there was a casual message from his friend Joe on his answering machine asking him to call him at the bar. He smiled, lifted the receiver and dialed. Within minutes he knew about Jarod Spring and was listening to Joe's suggestion, which he answered dispassionately: “Well, I suppose I had better take a look at him.” So it was arranged that he'd try and meet Jarod that evening at Joe's.

Apart from Joe's call, there were two more messages. They were from the friend that had called him in Scotland, both requests to call back at once. Nothing else. Again he tried her number, and this time he was finally in luck. “Amanda?”

“MacLeod! Where are you?”

“I've just gotten back to the flat.”

“Duncan, I told you to leave Seacouver urgently! Kenny is there! — Look, I'm in town. Just landed, in fact. You stay where you are, I'll be there as soon as I can.” She hung up before he could say a thing. He started dialing her number, then stopped himself. No, better tell her in person that the next thing to a child that she'd ever had was no more.

He decided to prepare himself in the best way he could think of.

 

**_[Seacouver, Duncan MacLeod's dojo,  
about 20 minutes later]_ **

Duncan MacLeod was standing in the middle of his dojo, his legs apart, the knees slightly bent, his lungs slowly filling themselves with air. His hands “held” a ball that his mind had conjured. He rolled it, lifted it, and finally—when he had to accept that his concentration was not sufficient— tossed it like a basketball. In his mind, it vanished into thin air.

Instead, he went over to the heavy suspended sand bag and started to hit it in a slow rhythm. His face showed no emotion, only exhaustion. Yet his body went on hitting the sand bag in the same regular tireless rhythm. As regular as a metronome, fist, elbow, shin or wrist hit the dark leather: thud…thud…thud…

Another half-hour later he went back up to his loft, took a quick shower and prepared tea.

Little later he felt the eerie sensation of an approaching Immortal.

 

Amanda stomped into the flat and instantly started to scold Duncan for staying in Seacouver, while her anger was still fresh. However, the look he gave her silenced her immediately. “Sit down, Amanda.” His voice told her that this was serious. He motioned toward the leather sofa facing the kitchen. As she crossed to it and sat, he poured her a cup of tea and took it over to her. He sat beside her, reached out for the newspaper and handed it to her. He waited for her to read the headline.

“They killed Kenny,” he commented dryly. Neither of them smiled.

Amanda said nothing for a long time. For a while she had viewed Kenny as a foster son of sorts. But then they had met again, and he had perverted what she’d taught him. And he had almost killed Duncan. “It had to happen sooner or later. He…” She bit her lip.“ He was bound for such a fate.” She hesitated another moment, then asked. “Who? Did you…?”

“No. I don't know who did it.”

She nodded, lost in thought. “He called me and said he was about to have his revenge. Wanted my friendship back.” Kenny had been dead to her since the day he had tried to kill Duncan. She couldn’t bring herself to say so, though, nor had she said so to Kenny.

They sipped their tea in silence. Later, MacLeod took Amanda's hand. He had probably expected tears, but she wasn't weeping. You didn’t cry over the death of a soulless body. “What are you thinking?”

She looked up. “I'd like to go to the Island. I need to say a quiet good-bye.” She shrugged, by way of an apology. “Alone.” She needed to think, really. Like, inhowfar she was to be blamed for the wrong turn Kenny had taken so long ago.

“Of course.” He smiled. Of course. Duncan was always understanding and forgiving. It was part of what kept her from staying with him. She could never deal with this overabundance of gentleness for long. He always thought he understood, when in truth he understood so little. It drove her crazy every once in a while.

 

**_[Seacouver, at Joe's bar,  
in the evening of the same day]_ **

Jarod was already there, when Joe arrived. Steve was helping out again and intimated he thought Jarod Spring was into profiling or some such. He had come in hours ago, had consumed food and soft drinks and spent some time contemplating some neatly arranged newspaper cut-outs in his red note-book. Mostly, however, he had read in a book on criminal psychology, “looking hot,” as Steve commented with a grin.

Joe found those news disquieting enough to wonder if he should call the meeting off, but then a drunk girl came in and demanded liquor in a loud voice. Gah, the gall of some people! When Joe asked if she was even old enough to drink, she let loose a string of epithets. Joe signaled to the musicians to take the stage and told the girl, “Look, I got three legs.” He knocked the cane against his prosthetics. “And none of them’s very good. But you, young lady, you ain’t got a leg to stand on.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “I’ll be happy to serve you when you’re of age. Until then, don’t make me call the cops on you.” Steve escorted her out and to Joe’s surprise, she went almost meekly. Joe breathed relief.

The jam session was just starting off with Jarod Spring sitting in the far corner of the stage with a tin whistle, when a wary Duncan MacLeod entered the bar.

Joe greeted him warmly: “Hey, Mac! Good to see ya!”

“Joe,” he nodded with a gentle smile.

It was against all odds that they had become friends. After all, Joe was a Watcher. The Watchers were a secret organization that followed the lives of Immortals. The Watchers, therefore, _knew_. They knew all about the Immortals—their lives, their fights, their deaths. They knew that one Immortal beheading another would release what they called a Quickening… Still, by definition, they observed and filed all information they could lay their hands on, but never interfered. In actual fact, however, this latter rule was not always followed.

Joe did his best not to interfere, but his having become Duncan's friend made that a quite complicated task. That friendship also was why he had hesitated to introduce Jarod to Duncan. But now that both were here he would soon learn if it had been the right thing to do.

On entering, MacLeod's face had been inscrutable, but while approaching the bar he shook his head minutely. Joe gave him a curt nod. He had been fairly sure that Jarod was no Immortal, but it was nice to know for certain. Immortals could sense each other—a due warning, considering the Rules of the Game.

Without having to ask, Joe poured him a Glenmorangie. MacLeod looked at him. He took a second glass and poured another. “I'm glad you're back in one piece.”

“So am I.” They drank in silence.

 

When the musicians paused a little while later, Joe waved to the dark-haired tin-whistler, who in turn waved back, rose and signaled to Steve, Joe’s new help. Satisfied that this new patron was, indeed, no Immortal hunting him, Duncan would now rather have got rid of the approaching stranger. He was beginning to regret coming while Joe introduced him to Jarod Spring.

They exchanged a few words, then he saw Jarod’s expression change. Obviously he had become aware of Steve standing impertinently close behind him with his serving plate. “What can I do for you, sweetheart?” the waiter smiled.

MacLeod grinned smugly, expecting Jarod Spring to find an excuse and leave quickly, or at least to be impolite enough to afford Duncan an excuse for not wanting any more dealings with him. Jarod, however, merely cocked his head with a puzzled frown and retorted: “I'd like to pay. —Why do you call me sweetheart?”

Steve might have been prepared for any reaction from a kiss to a punch in the stomach; still, Spring took him by surprise. The help clearly decided he was no match for such a perfect pretense of innocence and snatched at the first explanation that came to mind: “Ummm … It's a quote.”

Duncan stifled a laugh. What an inane reply! To his surprise, Spring kept a straight face, though. “Really? Who wrote that, I’ve never heard it before?” He sounded sincere enough. Some acting there!

The waiter did not move, yet he contrived to draw back visibly. He shrugged. “Don't remember. Sorry. … You had two glasses of milk and garlic bread, right? I'll bring you the bill in a sec." With that he beat a hasty retreat.

“Never mind about the quote," Spring told him when he returned. "I can look it up.” He paid, adding a generous tip. Nice touch, that.

Duncan grinned at Steve's retreating back. Jarod Spring seemed to have a fun sense of humor. MacLeod noted he was taking an instant liking to the man, so he asked: “And what can _I_ do for you?”

Jarod turned back to face him. “Sorry for the interruption. Well,”—he gestured at Joe —“your friend mentioned that you own a dojo and that perhaps I could rent it for a couple of hours.” There was something charmingly humble about the man.

“In principle, yes,” MacLeod told him, “In particular, it depends on when.”

Jarod instantly replied: “Actually, the when does not matter, as long as I can be alone and do my thing in peace. I don't have a tight time schedule to follow. Midday, midnight… Whatever suits you.” * _So, no working hours, huh?*_ Duncan MacLeod was far too old not to ponder the implications of what was being said. Maybe the man was out of work – or doing something illegal. But then… Maybe just a dancer between engagements? * _No, fit enough, but too tall.*_ Perhaps Duncan had betrayed his doubts, for Spring now added by way of an explanation, “I just hate being watched, is all.” A flicker of emotion passed over the attractive features as he said so – this sentiment went deep, MacLeod judged.

 _*Ugh, I sure can relate to_ that _,*_ he thought instantly, but stopped himself from saying so.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Joe wince, anyway, and retreat to the bar. He nodded slowly. After all, there was nothing to be said against an additional income. “In that case, yes, why not. If you like, I’ll take you there so you can decide if it really is what you want.”

Jarod agreed. He rose and went to the bar to thank Joe for introducing him. Joe Dawson merely grinned and answered that it had been his pleasure. MacLeod knew the man well enough to tell he meant it.

When they got out and approached MacLeod's T-Bird, Jarod whistled softly. “What a little beauty!” Duncan smiled and agreed. They began to chat about cars, while they drove off slowly.

 

**_[Seacouver, Duncan MacLeod's dojo,  
a short drive later]_ **

Little later they entered the dojo, still deep in conversation. They found each other quite easy to talk to. They both had to remind themselves constantly not to relax too much. In fact, the two of them shared much more than they knew: They each had to be watchful, for each was ruthlessly pursued. Each had secrets to keep and memories that weighed heavily on his conscience… Duncan, because he was immortal and thus part of what Immortals called The Game. Jarod, because he was a genius and what his pursuers called a Pretender.

 

Jarod had been kidnapped at the age of five and subsequently raised by a secret organization that called itself The Centre. In the following 30 or so years, The Centre had exploited Jarod's talent of becoming anyone he chose. He had been trained to absorb the necessary information quickly, relive situations others had experienced or might experience and give detailed accounts of how the person chosen had reacted or would react in the given situation. Many of these simulations had been made use of with ill intent. He still felt responsible for the ensuing destruction, injuries, deaths.

Finally, he had escaped, and now he was free, though on the run. He used his freedom to get to terms with his conscience by putting things right where the law couldn't, and in some cases _wouldn't_ reach. For his next such sting he needed a secluded space. Like this dojo.

Jarod had stopped just inside the entrance to take in the place. The room had an appealing down-to-earth-ness about it. He quickly went over to an upright wooden board with a hard leather-covered cushion. He punched it venomously, only to turn around and voice his admiration: “Wow! Cool!” It was perfect!

Duncan MacLeod’s remark “That's a mean punch you have” startled Jarod.

“Really?” He had never really seen himself as someone who might do combat. Not outside a simulation.

“Easy to foresee,” MacLeod pursued, “but powerful enough to knock someone cold.”

 _*Easy to foresee.*_ Jarod nodded. _*He's right, of course. I'll have to work on that.*_ “Thanks.” He changed the subject: “I suppose the early morning or at night is the best time to be alone here?”

His would-be-landlord agreed. “Yes. I live upstairs, but you'll hear the lift before I come down. Only someone coming in from outside might disturb your privacy,” he cautioned. “People turn up at all times.”

Jarod shrugged. “I'll keep an eye on the entrance, no problem. How about noise?” The question earned him a puzzled look.

“Would you mind if I practiced musical instruments?”

MacLeod looked … relieved? How strange! But yes, some of the tension in his muscular shoulders had definitely just dissolved. “I don't hear much from down here, anyway. But the way you play I sure won't mind,” he replied magnanimously, “provided you keep it down between 1 and 5 a.m” From there, they plunged into working out the details, until MacLeod concluded: “Fine. So we have a deal?”

They exchanged smiles and Jarod shook the proffered hand. “Deal.”

 

**_[Seacouver, Duncan MacLeod's loft,  
Thursday, November _ ** **_14 th, 1996, 6 a.m.]_ **

Early in the morning, Duncan MacLeod heard a male singing voice from the dojo: Jarod Spring. He crossed over to the elevator and listened to the haunting tune:

 

 _“Hold me—I am falling,_  
_Endless depths are awaiting me._  
_Listen, I am calling_  
_‘Cause I must see what I'll hate to see.”_

Transfixed, he stood and listened, his thoughts racing. The man oscillated from oddly youthful to shockingly direct to old-fashioned politeness… Could all this be an act, with something fishy or illegal at the bottom. Or was this kind of soul-baring song the only reason for Jarod Spring's shyness?

 _“Leave me—I am falling_  
_And I'd hate to drag you down with me._  
_Ah…”_

He shook his head, grabbed his duster coat and his katana and left the loft in long, determined strides.

  
  

 

\----------------------- Footnotes----------------------- 

[1] With the time difference taken into account, this means, of course the morning of the following day.


	4. Inspection

_**[Seacouver, Duncan MacLeod's dojo,  
some two hours later]** _

Duncan MacLeod was doing exercises in his dojo. He went through the precise routine movements of a kata, imagining their use as he went along. His foot described a circle, catching the leg of an invisible opponent and bringing him down. Just then he felt a presence, and he stopped short of killing the imaginary enemy in favor of the potential threat in the real world.

When he heard her voice call out his name, though, he relaxed and answered, “Amanda!” She turned the corner looking unexpectedly happy, he noted. There even was a hint of her usual infectious gaiety in her demeanor. It would be lovely to spend time with her, and he let his tone betray as much. “Welcome back.”

 

 _**[Seacouver, Port District,** _  
_**in the forenoon of the same day]** _

Beneath a leaden sky, Jarod was standing in a lonely cul-de-sac, thumbing through the red notebook he had filled with neatly arranged newspaper clippings. In his flat he had been able to smell the printing ink, but this environment was too smelly. The sun was providing only just enough light to discern the headlines.

He brushed his fingertips across the first clipping: “Beheaded Body Found—Police at a Loss”. It was from a Texan newspaper. As he lingered a moment over an article from the New York Times, he could not help experiencing a distant echo of the portrayed devastation: “Decapitated Man Found by Kid, Child Suffers from Severe Shock”. The he resolutely turned the page. The square cut from the Herald Tribune—“Suspected Serial Killings: The Clues to Means and Motives”—barely got a glance. Skipping over several pages, he found what he had been looking for; The article had been cut out from the Seacouver Enquirer. It was still a little too dark to read, but he knew the text by heart:

 

 

 

**_  
_**

| 

**Beheaded Boy Stuffed Into Dustbin**

**_Seacouver. This Monday afternoon the beheaded body of a male Caucasian adolescent was found in a lonely street close to the Seacouver port. It had been crammed into a dustbin to delay discovery._**  
  
---|---  
  | 

The police are now looking to identify the youth. So far, nobody of his description has been reported missing in Seacouver. However, chances are the boy was not a Seacouver resident.

"This might be the most recent of a whole series of mysterious killings across the US," says FBI agent Matthew McCormick. He also revealed that he has been researching a number of like murders.The seasoned agent continued, "Of course I cannot go into detail, but there are certain parallels in these cases that lead us to believe they are strongly connected."

So this gruesome violent act might well turn out to have been perpetrated by a serial killer, once Seacouver investigations progress further.

* * *

|   |    
  
The page even held a “First Attempt at a Professional Profile” by a Samantha Waters, FBI-agent. The profile was quite vague and kept stressing that it was only a first guess. Jarod had not been able to glean much from it. The most interesting piece of information it provided was this: “From the strange lack of bodily scars among the victims one could perhaps conclude that the killer has a craving for physical perfection, health, or possibly youth.”

Finally, with the article there were a drawing of the victim as well as a picture of the cul-de-sac in which Jarod was now standing. It had not been easy to find, but as usual, his special talents had taken him to his destination without undue delay.

 

**_[Seacouver, Duncan MacLeod's loft,  
at the same time]_ **

In Duncan MacLeod's abode, Joe Dawson, Duncan MacLeod and the beautiful Amanda were discussing a question that interested each of them for very different reasons: Who had had killed Kenny? They would have been surprised to know that they weren't the only ones pondering this problems, aside from the officials.

 

**_[Port District]_ **

Jarod closed the red book, sighed and looked around. It was finally getting light enough to do a thorough search. Glancing at the ground, he discovered a dark patch where the killing must have taken place. He grimaced, as he knelt to touch it. Yes, there was a trace of congealed blood beneath the dirt. He searched the road in concentric circles, but there was nothing to be seen. Even the dust-bin had been removed, though he could still tell where it had been standing.

He rose to inspect the litter on the street but it proved to be of no informative value whatsoever to him. There was nothing here, and according to the newspapers the police hadn't found much more, either. No weapon. No witnesses. No nothing. He sighed again.

While Jarod was still contemplating the view and the fairly offensive stink of the site, his luck turned. An elderly man carried a long ladder into the cul-de-sac and placed it beneath the broken street-light. He looked up, estimating the height and the weight of the ladder and muttering something unintelligible to himself. Then he caught sight of Jarod and smiled toothlessly: “Ey, laddie, ah could use some help. Whaddaya say?”

Jarod grinned amusedly and agreed, “Sure.”

“I'm Benno.” Without waiting to hear Jarod's name, Benno asked him to help lean the ladder against the wall and to secure it. When that much was achieved, he put his foot on the first rung, and Jarod caught a whiff of lavender. Industriously Benno proceeded to repair the street-light. He carried all that was needed in the depths of the pockets in his dusty overall, it seemed. This Benno was a real character. It was good to see there were still unusual people out there; Good to see that the Centre hadn’t snagged them all to make money off them, Jarod thought caustically.

Meanwhile Benno babbled along, telling Jarod the story of his life and complaining that this lamp would never look the same again. “Second time in a _week_ what I have to change zis one! Ah, ze times ain't what zey use to be. And look: all burned! 'S not gonna work even wiz a whole new bulb, likely as not…” When he was done, however, it worked even so.

Jarod asked if he might use the ladder and admire his work. He had only half climbed up when he whistled softly and accelerated his ascent. It was, indeed, a small miracle that the fuse worked, as the lamp had recently experienced an encounter with a fire of sorts.

“It… it must have exploded! Why on earth would a lamp do that, Benno?” Jarod asked while climbing down.

“Somtimes 'cause of lightnings, somtimes doo to school-kids makin' a short-cut…”

“Short-cut?” Jarod queried, puzzled, then brightened up: “Oh, you mean short-circuit!”

Benno shrugged. “Same zing.” He grinned. “No matter. Accident, silly kids, angry men… Main zing is: I keep my job.” He winked, took his ladder and wandered off, on to the next broken street-light.

Jarod remained behind for a moment. He gave that gloomy place a final pondering look. Looking up at the thick rainclouds in the sky, he muttered: “Not the place one should have to work in. Much less die.”

Then he left and went to find himself a job.

 

 

_**[Seacouver, the “Beehive Building”,  
in the offices of the Seacouver Enquirer,** _   
**in the early afternoon of the same day]**

“Now, that's an impressive career! FBI agent, ghost writer, … What made you choose to become a journalist?” Rita McKency, the owner of the Seacouver Enquirer, was a smart redhead. Jarod thought she might be inclined to rely on her intuition and engage him from the spot, no-name or not, for she didn’t even bother to ask about details of his previous jobs.

“Oh, I do everything 100 percent, but get bored easily,” Jarod explained smoothly. “The job's perfect for me, as I need a change every once in a while.” It wasn’t exactly a white lie, but close enough, he felt.

“Well, now that you mention it: your CV sure bears that out.”

“The best part is, as a freelancer I can investigate to my heart's content… I mean to say: I'm not told ‘This is the news, this is what you need to know’. Instead, I _make_ news, revealing what shouldn't remain hidden.”

Meanwhile, McKency finished reading the articles he had written for her, hardly listening to this emotional statement. She finally smiled at him. “You know what?” Jarod realized his writing had convinced her when she picked out the short commentary. “I’m going to print this one. It will need a bit of editing, but for a beginner, you’ve done pretty well. And on a hunch, I’ll let you have a go at the body in Port District. If within two hours you turn in a better half-page than the version I’ve already got, you’re on the front page on your very first day. Go on, give it your best shot and make my day. Reveal what shouldn’t be hidden!” Her grin was a challenge rather than a blessing, but it could not compete in coldness with Miss Parker’s.

 

**_[Blue Cove, The Centre,  
three hours later]_ **

“Broots!” Miss Parker's voice cut through the music in his headphones. She pulled them off his head. “What's this?” she demanded threateningly.

“It's from Jarod,” he explained in a panicky tone of voice. “Listen.”

He rarely held back in showing her his fear. If anything, perhaps he exaggerated a little. No matter what she claimed, Miss Parker did relish having power over her minions, and she loved scaring grown men. And Broots was old and wise enough to give her what she wanted. Nobody at the Centre was ever honest, so why should he be?

 

**_[Seacouver, at Joe's bar,  
the same day, late at night]_ **

Duncan entered the bar, anticipating another enjoyable evening at Joe's, and greeted bartender Mike. He sat by the bar, as he mostly did. To his mild surprise he saw Jarod on stage with a common wooden flute this time. He was waiting for his turn to join in while Joe sang. Apparently tonight's concert had rather turned into a spontaneous jam session, much to the joy of the audience.

Duncan had always admired his friend for the way he sang with absolute abandon. Now he found himself admiring Jarod for the way he played his little flute: While he gave in to his emotions just as much as the singer, he still kept in the shadows, so to speak. He was intent on providing a perfect background for the soloists rather than doing a solo himself. That was unusual, indeed.

He smiled. Well, so far as he could tell Jarod was a fine character, and this seemed to be just like him. But then… There were those things he had found out about him. Or rather, had not found out. Because the guy simply didn't exist. Not under this name, anyway. In an Immortal, this would not have been a reason for suspicion, but Jarod Spring was a mortal. So why was he using a false name?

Duncan sighed. Maybe there was a good explanation. He sincerely hoped so. He would talk to the man and ask him about it directly. Not yet, though. Right now he just wanted to listen to some damn fine music.

 

A little while later Joe joined his friend at the bar. MacLeod wasn’t easy to read, but Joe thought that something bothered him and started a conversation. They talked about the jam session, music, musicians, Jarod. What they had learned about him so far proved an interesting topic.

At length the subject of their current conversation left the stage and came over. He gave them a frank smile and said, simply: “I envy you.” For the umpteenth time, Joe took note of how deep the voice was and wondered if Jarod’s singing voice would be as great as he imagined.

Instead he asked, “Why?”

The smile deepened. “On account of your friendship. It must be wonderful to live close to ones friends. — Somehow I don't seem to be able to stay in one place long enough for that.” His smile grew sad.

“But all that takes is a good job and a place to stay in, really,” MacLeod countered. Typical.

“And a friend,” Joe added. “It's not always easy to make friends.” Oh boy, did he have reason to know!

Jarod nodded, and they sat in silence, pondering this sudden outburst of candor. Eventually, Mac looked directly at Jarod and asked: “Are you going to stay in Seacouver?“ Having meant to ask the same, Joe smiled.

“For the moment, yes,” Jarod confirmed. “I've got a good job and a place to stay in, so… Well, I'll see if I can make friends, too.”

 

His smile wasn't as frank as usual; there was a veiled sadness in his eyes. Duncan, with the experience of twenty score of years in his background, recognized it for what is was, nodded and fell silent again.

Joe, however, seemed oblivious to it and said encouragingly: “A job's a great way to make friends.”

Jarod smiled a little cynically, reached into the inner pocket of his indispensable black leather jacket and took out today's evening edition of the Seacouver Enquirer. He indicated his name beneath the front-page article, adding the dry comment: “Not necessarily.”

Duncan's heart almost missed a beat. Jarod's article appeared to be about Kenny's death. He would have to be extra careful around that man. Maybe his profession also explained why Jarod valued his privacy overmuch… On the other hand, it didn't explain why he didn't exist. Duncan sighed and ventured quietly: “Maybe that's hard because you're not quite honest with others.”

Jarod looked up sharply. Enigmatically he replied: “I am as honest as I _can_ be.”

“So you give a false name because you have no choice?” Joe countered with some heat. Sometimes Duncan forgot how much younger he was. Oh well, the cat had been let out of the bag a bit less skillfully than planned. That couldn’t be helped now. Would it bring out the good old spy-under-cover fairy tale?

Jarod seemed hurt, but he said evenly: “I'd gladly give my real name. If I could.” Duncan kept watching his expressive features.

“Then why can't you, man?” the salt-and-pepper-haired bartender insisted, less angry but still impatient.

“I don't know my real last name.” The deep resounding voice was under tight control, but the hurt was obvious in his eyes now.

Joe looked shocked to see how deep it ran. “Sorry.”

“That's okay,” Jarod conceded. “You have to ask questions to understand people. Same as in my profession.”

The turn of phrase, the sentiment—the combination felt strangely familiar to Duncan. “I wonder… was it you who wrote that thing about the Paralympics[1] and the expression ‘physically challenged’, by any chance?” he inquired.

Jarod nodded slowly.

Joe's eyes widened: “Really? I read it! Never noticed the name, to be honest,” he added apologetically. “Anyway, by the feel of the article I thought the author was disabled himself. Newly disabled. Can’t say I felt challenged when the war turned me into a cripple…” He knocked his cane against his prosthetics. “One learns to see things differently after a while.” He winked.

The younger man smiled. “Thanks. Let's say I simulated that a bit. We got loads of long letters to the editor for that one, from both dissenting and agreeing readers. Unusual for a small column at the back of the paper. It got far more feedback than the front page.” He shrugged.

Joe Dawson scowled. “Every case is different, but I guess you triggered a couple of PTSD’s, among other things.” He paused for a few seconds, likely lost in his own thoughts. Then he sighed, “Not that the 4th of July doesn’t trigger a lot more of those. Or boatloads of tv shows. The media have more kinds of power than they realize.” He looked like he had surprised himself with this train of thought.

It started a lively discussion, though, that soon moved from subject to subject pleasantly. For a while, Duncan actually forgot how it had started. Not for the first time he found it hard to be quite as careful and secretive as usual. Jarod Spring’s charm was seriously disarming.

At long last two members of the band came over and talked Joe and Jarod into joining them on stage for their last set. MacLeod listened, and slowly drank up his Glenmorangie. If he found it impossible to dislike either Joe or Jarod, much of that fact was owed to their congenial rendition of music.

 

**_[Seacouver, at the Felsensteins’ Wedding,  
at around same time]_ **

“No, seriously, she was gonna put my article on the front page. Then along comes bloody Prince Handsome and she’s all female gut-feeling—well, a bit lower than the gut, if you ask me.” The rather drunk fellow at the bar snorted with derision, and the bartender gave him the usual look of polite interest and a half-smile. “So he gets the front-page, and I get told that my version was so lame a rookie managed to beat it. Yeah, right. I’d like to know with what part of his anatomy he beat me. Haha!” He had made this “joke” about three times in the past twenty minutes. And he had already told two different versions of the story, as well. The bartender was vaguely curious what the next version would turn out like.

At this point, a nondescript middle-aged woman with owl glasses came in and sat beside the tanked-up guest. “Hey, Riley,” she greeted him. “I’ve just seen your rookie nemesis.”

“Hey, Emily,” he retorted. “I’m all ears.”

 

**_[just outside Joe's bar,  
later that night]_ **

Joe had long closed the bar, but was still jamming with two or three others when Duncan and Jarod left Joe's together eventually. The two men strolled down the street in silence. Jarod noticed that they passed Duncan's car, but said nothing. He had learnt much about MacLeod’s way of thinking tonight, but little about his past and personal circumstances. There was an air of secretiveness about him, something stand-offish, and yet… Well, all in all, Duncan MacLeod was a both enigmatic and personable man. Right now Jarod felt that the man walking beside him had something on his mind.

 

He was right. Duncan wanted to find out why he didn't know his last name. He wanted to help, but hadn't found a good way to broach the matter just yet. So they continued walking in silence until finally they had reached a church. Duncan happened to know the parson and stopped abruptly. “Shall we go inside? It would make a good place to talk…”

Contrary to what Jarod surely expected, the church door would not be locked. It never was. The parson believed in simple interior, sturdy fixed furniture, and keeping the doors open at all times. There even were two bunk beds for the desperate or homeless at the back. So Duncan briskly went over and opened the door.

They both entered and found they were not alone. In the light of several candles they saw a lonely figure kneeling on the ground. Not a homeless bum, it seemed, though. It was a young girl. She was praying aloud, apparently. They tried not to disturb her, but even so they could see her lips cease moving and hear the murmur of her voice die down. Her body started to tremble, as they approached, so they sat a discreet distance. She stood and turned. As if in trance she slowly walked down the aisle towards the two motionless men. Unseeing eyes stared through them for a brief moment, before they were directed at the door.

“She's in shock,” Jarod diagnosed softly. “She must have seen something awful, poor child.” Duncan thought of the killing that Jarod's front page article had been about, but he decided against mentioning it. He had his own theory what might have brought this shock on…

The girl had almost reached them, when she shook violently; a ripple ran through her body as if she had been slapped by an invisible giant hand. She looked at them, this time taking in what she saw, and ran.

Jarod called, “Wait!”

Duncan had jumped over the back of their bench and was already making for her for his own reasons. He heard Jarod’s steps behind him, but he didn’t out-run him. Little later, they reached the door, and Duncan pushed it closed behind him. He stopped himself in the middle of the churchyard. “She's gone,” he told Jarod as he emerged from the church. “I stumbled, and when I looked up she had disappeared. But she can't be far.” Not just because only a few seconds had elapsed. He could still sense her.

Jarod's voice carried a confidence that somehow reminded Duncan of an old friend, a gifted psychologist[1]: “She'll be up in the trees.” He indicated the tiny patch of green at the back of the churchyard that mainly consisted of a few beds of roses and a dozen trees.

Jarod passed the Immortal, who was cursing silently. Duncan cautiously followed him to the tree in the branches of which the girl, barely visible in the dark, was hiding. “Sorry we frightened you,” Jarod said.

“Who are you?” the girl demanded in heavily accented English.

Duncan came up to them, answering: “I am Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod. I am not here to fight you.”

 

Jarod shook his head over this strangely formal announcement. “My name is Jarod. And yours?”

“I am Ana Floresita. I am not armed, and this is Holy Ground. What do you want?” Her formality went with MacLeod’s. How had the man guessed how to approach her? And why Holy Ground? Jarod felt there was a rapport between those two, so he left it to MacLeod to reply.

“Talk,” the baritone calmly answered.

“I think I can help you,” Jarod said. “Let me help you. Please.”

“Go away.” Her voice was tired and small now.

Jarod ignored her words. “May I come up?” When she didn't answer, he climbed the tree with slow graceful movements, trying not to do anything abrupt. He sat on a branch beneath her and spoke to her in a low voice. He told her his name and that he was just here to help, that she was in need of protection and help,… He couldn’t risk using too much of his special talents right now, but it seemed to work, anyway. It was hard to tell her expression in the dark, but gradually the girl seemed to relax. “Let us take you home,” Jarod suggested at last.

“I do not know where my home is,” she replied resignedly.

 

“You can stay in my quarters. If you care to.” The baritone voice had come closer; she could again feel the sense of danger Immortals always instilled in each other.

She hesitated: “I have no reason to trust you … and vice versa.”

The immortal stranger chose his words carefully: “I have a very good reason to trust you: the beaten look in your eyes. You can't fight right now. I'm offering you protection. Trust me or leave it be.”

She accepted this none too friendly offer, knowing that only an Immortal could REALLY help. That seemed to confuse this Jarod. Very likely he had no idea who he was with. She wasn’t sure it was a bright idea to forfeit the protection a mortal’s presence afforded her, but on the other hand, if there was a danger to be met, she needed to face it right away, before her sleeplessness  got worse.

 

**_[Seacouver, at Felsenstein’s Bistro & Bar,  
at the same time]_ **

“Now that I got Riley off your hands,” Emily looked at the bartender, “it’s time someone else does the listening and you do the talking, right?” A wide mischievous grin animated her face and made it attractive. “So, did I miss anything fun?”

He grinned back. “You’re from the press, too, huh?”

“Yeah, but…” She leaned in confidentially. “I give better tips than he does.”

“Well, you missed something a BIT fun…” He plunged into his story and could not complain of not having an attentive audience.

 

**_[grounds of St. Frances on Couver River church]_ **

Obviously Duncan MacLeod and Ana Floresita shared a knowledge that he couldn't access. He felt a little left out, but was thankful that at least the girl was safe. Uncomprehending and deep in thought, he watched the two walk off.

It was only afterwards that he realized MacLeod had never mentioned what had been on his mind and had caused him to walk with him.

 

 

 ----------- Footnote ------------

[1] That year, 1996, there were summer Paralympics.  
[2] Sean Burns  :-)


	5. Composition

_**[Seacouver, Duncan MacLeod's dojo,** _  
_**Friday, November 15 th, 1996]**_

When the man he knew as Jarod Spring entered the dojo before dawn the next day, MacLeod was sitting in his little office, reading some business papers. On hearing Spring knock on the office door, he laid them aside and smiled. “Hi.” Looking at his watch he added: “You're dead on time, if you were aiming for 6 a.m.” He wondered whether Spring was the punctual and meticulous type, or it was just coincidence.

Jarod Spring, however, didn’t answer his statement. He merely acknowledged it with a smile and a nod, then greeted him, “Hi. Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“On the wall over there…”—he  gestured toward the dojo wall to their right—“Are these real swords?”

MacLeod nodded slowly. “Beautiful, aren't they,” he remarked guardedly.

Jarod smiled. “Yes. I thought maybe you could recommend something comprehensive to read up on weapons. I need to develop a bit of an overview of how different blades can be. For an article, obviously.”

The Immortal relaxed. “I see. Well, I guess I know a bit about that.—It's funny: The most concise stuff might be literature on role playing. A friend said ‘GURPS Martial Arts’ is an oddly well-researched compendium.”

“Role playing?” Jarod's laughed, but Duncan got the impression that this time it was Jarod’s turn to feel uneasy and suspicious. Why, though? “I will,” Jarod replied now in a more matter-of-fact voice. “Thanks.—Ah… Mind if I record a song in here before anyone else comes in?”

 

 

**_[Blue Cove, The Centre,  
the same day, at around 10.15 a.m.]_ **

Miss Parker was sitting in her office. She had told her minions to leave her alone, for she wanted to listen to Jarod's tape in peace. At first there was only music. Studio quality, as was to be expected. It touched her and made her feel vulnerable and delicate inside. She hated it when he did that to her.

Now a singing voice rose above the instruments. There was no mistaking its rich, vibrant sound: Jarod.

_“Hold me—I am falling,  
Endless depths are awaiting me.”_

She smirked sarcastically. Jarod was disposed to think in pathetic clichés.

“ _Don't worry—_  
_I'm weeping at my own shoulder_  
_and crying in my own arms._  
_I don't need you.”_

Enraged, she sat up sharply and threw the headphones in a corner of the room. “The bastard!” The lyrics had stung her, laying something bare she would never have allowed to be exposed. Much as she despised the fact, Jarod still seemed to know her too well for comfort.

_**[Seacouver, an apartment house,** _  
_**at about the same time]** _

Annabelle Madison thought that this was perhaps the strangest encounter in the 84 years her life had lasted so far. She had heard something from the staircase that sounded remarkably like someone tumbling down the steps.

99,9% of the urban population would now have gone and tried to drown out the noise. Annabelle, however, opened the door to the stairway. She looked out fearfully and found herself faced with a muscular dark-haired man. He was just uprighting himself to his full and, to her, rather impressive height. Nevertheless she asked, “Are you alright, Mister?”

Nobody was around. He could do exactly as he wished, it dawned on her far too late. She thought to herself, _*Oh dear, Annabelle, let’s hope that being decent to a perfect stranger isn’t your last folly!*_

 

Duncan instantly broke into a smile. Her obvious fear and the way she ignored it touched him. “I am frustrated, but well, Ma'am.” He took her hand, kissed it and smiled up at her with as much charm as he could muster.

Turning pink, she replied: “Goodness, sir! You don't act like someone your age. How did you time-travel here from the age of gentlemen? You make me feel quite young again!” She looked like it was true, too—and she even giggled! What a sweet soul. Time travel? Well, he did feel transported back in time just now. Old-fashioned phrases beleaguered his tongue…

“Good. You _are_ young. Quite, quite young,” he retorted warmly. “Alas, I have to go now. My apologies for disturbing you. Good-bye.” He bowed, then politely waited for her to reluctantly say good-bye and close the door.

Only then did he permit himself to wince. He made a face as he shifted his weight on the ankle that had been sprained while he had been trying to catch up with Ana Floresita. Slowly he limped off. Immortal healing was all well and good, but the more minor the injury, the longer it took to heal, he always felt. But then, maybe it just seemed that way—minor injuries were just so irksome!

 

 _**[Seacouver, Inner City District,** _  
_**at about the same time]** _

Jarod sat in a public library, reading the book MacLeod had recommended and taking notes on sharp-edged weapons. It required only a few minutes to go through the relevant part.

Someone had marked a page by leaving a little card in it, he noticed. On top the card said “Urborg Phantom”. Then there was a picture of strange creatures fighting with fantastic weapons, a code of numbers and symbols in several places, and some text. Apparently it was part of a game, as the text contained information about fighting abilities. The last line said: “A chilling fog with teeth of ice.” Jarod thought of Miss Parker and smiled thinly.

He turned the card around and read “Magic: The Gathering”. He decided he'd find out more about this funny discovery later. He put the card back and returned his attention to the book.

After memorizing all he needed, he skimmed through the rest and began to smile. “Well, Miss Parker,” he muttered, “this sounds like just the game for you.”

On the same shelf he discovered “The Compendium of Weapons, Armour and Castles.” “Now that's more like it,” he said with a delighted smile. He took it down, began to read. He started a new page and drew a table with several columns: axes, sickles, knives, daggers… Then he filled the columns with sketches and weapon names from both books.

MacLeod had been right: the information in these books was very concise; exactly what Jarod needed for the moment.

Half an hour later he was back in his lair and hacking himself into the FBI computer network. That being done, it was easy enough to retrieve the medical report from the file about the beheaded boy.

After reading the first paragraphs, Jarod went back to the table of weapons and crossed out all those that wouldn't effect a clean cut. Then he turned to the computer again to find out more.

He frowned. Apparently, tissue had been removed from the wound to test it for traces of metal. The file held an email-message that referred to the test results, although the file didn't contain them. Jarod shut off the computer and leaned back in his chair to contemplate the situation. At last he quietly told the room: “This stinks.”

 

**_[an hour later]_ **

Jarod looked both ways before he slipped into the corridor. In his white lab coat, gauze lab cap, latex gloves and glasses he looked every inch the scientist he was pretending to be. Nobody was there to notice him enter the laboratory, though.

Careful not to leave any traces of his presence, he spent a full hour searching for the tissue that had been removed or, alternatively, the corpse itself. However, neither was to be found anywhere. At last he glanced into a corner of the storage room he was searching and a smile spread on his features. Swiftly he left the building.

 

**_[a few minutes later]_ **

The phone in the make-shift office rang shrilly. A well-manicured male hand lifted the receiver. “McCormick speaking.”

Matthew McCormick shifted his gaze from his hand to the wall clock. Gah, still not lunchtime yet.

“Uh, hullo, Sir,” he heard a deep voice through the receiver. “Jarod Sauber. I'm speaking for the Communal Refuse Collection Department. I hear you still have one of our dustbins. Do you still need it or can I send someone to collect it?” Relief washed over McCormick, and he sighed softly.

He did his best to sound disinterested, though. “No, I guess you can have it back.” At last he could get rid of an important piece of evidence. He had noticed the metal traces and if anyone were to have them analyzed, who knew what they’d find. The less official channels knew about this whole thing, the better, in McCormick’s opinion.

 

**_[in the afternoon of the same day]_ **

Yes, here it was. Jarod peered at one of the dents in the metal dustbin standing in the middle of his room. He took out a powerful lens and looked more closely. Ha, yes! There certainly were traces of some material, probably another metal.

“Now let's see if I'm in luck,” he muttered while concentrated on collecting the tiny remnants of what had caused the dent. He looked at his tiny sample under the microscope. Yep, definitely metal. Mostly, at least. Then he turned to face a table with a bunsen burner, bottles, tubes and multicolored liquids.

Two hours later he knew roughly what sort of weapon had killed the boy.

 

 


	6. Analysis

_**[Blue Cove, The Centre,** _  
_**early in the afternoon of the same day]** _

When Miss Parker returned from the fencing match she had had during her lunch break, Sydney and Broots waiting for her with mail from Jarod, this time of even smaller dimensions, a mere envelope. Broots had been fidgeting anxiously to get to work on it, but Miss Parker had given orders not to touch anything that came from Jarod until she was there. So, untypically, he sighed relief when she entered. Sydney handed the envelope to her, sure it would be another taunt directed mainly at Miss Parker.

She opened it and took out a collection of colorful cards with hyperrealistic drawings and strange codes and quotes on them. Broots happened to know that these were part of a trading card game and explained they were copies of actual “Magic” cards.

Miss Parker snorted derisively and commented, “Just the game for your sorry little ass. I don’t have time for this,” and tossed the envelope over to him. She always tried to channel her sadness into anger, Sydney reflected. If she kept going like this, she would never resolve her issues.

Broots took out the contents, spread them on the table and pointed out, “Look, some of the quotes are marked. Err…” He cleared his throat fretfully. “Fictional quotes.” Sydney suppressed a smile. How quick Broots was to distract Parker! And it worked, she was now back at their side and concentrated on the cards.

Sydney added, “The images have been altered, too. Clever painting.”  He held up a card that showed Jarod and said: “ _We have fought this far and lost too much. We will not turn back.”_ and one with a picture of the Centre (“ _They have knives for every soul_ ”). Among the others[1], there also was one for each of the three of them. Automatically, each picked up the card that featured their own picture.

Broots regarded the card with the quote “ _The path of least resistance will seldom lead you beyond your doorstep_.” at the bottom, and threw it back into the envelope in silence. It met his case, Sydney felt; In fact, to some extent it fit anyone working for The Centre. In a way, at least.

Miss Parker read her quote aloud, “ _Isolation is not the answer_.” Then she commented irritably: “Great. Another riddle. When does Jarod grow up?!” That meant Jarod’s aim was impeccable as usual. And Sydney and Broots would suffer for it, as usual. This time she didn’t say so, but her drumming fingers announced her yearning for a cigarette clearly enough — that, too, was a sure sign she was unhappy. She was unhappy a lot.

“Well, this is not much of a riddle”, Sydney replied evenly, hoping to calm her somewhat. “He has found a new way of expressing things, and he is toying with it.” Despite this detached judgement he had been swallowing hard when he had read the quote on his own card: “ _Oh, I had a conscience once. But alas, I seem to have forgotten where I put it_.”

It was true that Sydney had helped the Centre in exploiting Jarod's talents ruthlessly, and it was only natural that Jarod should be so resentful. Still, it hurt to be judged like this. Like many who worked for the Centre, his position was not as easy as it must seem to Jarod.

When Sydney had started working here,  it had seemed like a great job, like he would be doing interesting and valuable work. And then he had learned, little by little, that this was more or less the Mafia version of research. He had found out that the children were abducted against both their and their parents’ will. He had learned that these kids were exploited or sold, whatever seemed more profitable. He got to know his colleagues and found out what they did. By the time that he had realized what was going on here, however, he had done enough that they could use to blackmail him. More importantly, he had already made a bond with Jarod and other children. Sydney and Catherine, Miss Parker’s mother, had worked together to safe some. It had worked for a little while, but then Catherine was shot, and deadly fear had settled on the psychologist. The murder had taught him that he had to be way more subtle about working against the Centre’s worst influences. The line that separated staying safe and taking the path of least resistance was shockingly thin, though. That was why Sydney had felt for Broots when seeing his card. The Centre sure wasn’t your average employer, and one could not expect Jarod to try and understand that.

 

 **_[Seacouver, in Jarod's flat,_ **  
**_a few hours later]_ **

Jarod had spent a quiet afternoon exploring another load of cards he had bought the day before. He had set one against his computer that he liked particularly because of its quote: “Good strategists seize opportunities. Great strategists make their own.” Now he sat contemplating its application.

A knock on the door interrupted his cogitation, and he opened it.

“May I come in?”

He smiled and beckoned her to do so, while asking, “How did you find me?”

“I heard that you work at the newspaper. I asked there.” She shrugged. “Easy.” Resourceful. He hadn’t expected that of her.

He inquired, “That means Mr. MacLeod doesn't know you are here, does he?”

Ana Floresita dropped on the floor, exhausted and apparently puzzled. “I don't know.” Then the undercurrent of anger that he had already been suspecting surfaced. “I can't remember!” Now her tone turned desperately pleading. “Please, can I stay?”

Reluctantly he agreed. “I'll have to call Mr. MacLeod, okay?”

He left a message on MacLeod's answering machine. As soon as that was accomplished he squatted down beside the girl still sitting on the floor. “Will you let me help you now?” She nodded sullenly.

As they were speaking, Jarod let his own self slip away so he could slide into a different mode of being. He allowed the uncomfortable feeling of a stranger’s self enveloping his soul until it was so firmly in place that he could think this other person’s thoughts and empathize with their emotions. This was what the Centre had trained him to be: a Pretender, who could turn himself into an expert on anything in an instant, just by becoming someone else. It was a strange and eerie gift, and a dreadful burden. His mentor Sydney had said that there was such a thing as a shared subconscious knowledge[1], and that Jarod’s gift probably allowed him to tap into it. Another time he had admitted that nobody at the Centre really understood it, but they knew that it was somehow linked to genius-level intelligence and some other factors. He hadn’t bothered to mention that they were content to know enough to single out potential Pretenders… Who could be anyone the Centre told them to be.

Jarod refocused on the person he needed to be now, and the stranger began to speak through him, “There are things you cannot remember, right?”

“Yes. It's like…” Ana Floresita drew a deep breath, controlling her emotions, and tried again. “When I try to remember it's like running against an invisible wall. A cotton-candy wall.” In a way, he envied her. There were traumatic memories from his own past that he would gladly have forgotten, if only he could have.

However, this wasn’t about him, it was about her. He refocused once again and asked, “How often does that happen?” He needed to be at once matter-of-fact and quietly compassionate. The professional he had shrugged on like a ghostly cloak could find that perfect tone quite naturally, knowing from experience that being more emotional wasn’t helpful.

Ana Floresita shrugged resignedly. “I don't know.” Poor girl. It was dreadful when you could not trust your own mind, Jarod had reason to know.

It was difficult to become someone else and stay “inside” them if your own self was troubled. However, the Centre had trained him ruthlessly so the moments he freed himself of that other self remained brief enough for a smooth performance. Brief enough to go unnoticed and unpunished.

He refocused for the third time and again found that tone of voice that went with it. “Okay. Let's talk about today. How did you start the day?”

“I woke early and had breakfast.” She was trying to sound relaxed and cheerful, but her apprehension was unmistakable. Especially since Jarod knew it was likely to be there, for so far his first, preliminary diagnosis of a trauma reaction kept being confirmed.

“I understand. And then?”

“My host left. I… I meditated and wandered around…” She had just been calming down somewhat, but now despair showed again in her voice. “And then nothing,” she finished in frustration. “My mind is blank.”

“What is the last thing you remember?”

“Going down the stairs to the dojo, I think.”

“You don't remember entering it?”

She flinched slightly. “It sounds mad, I know.” Jarod mentally ticked off another of the diagnostic criteria of ASD and PTSD[2].

“No, Ana Floresita. Not at all. A part of your soul has gone sore, like an overused muscle,” he affirmed in that calm, professional tone he knew to be the most effective.

“Sore?” She giggled a little hysterically.

“Yes. And just like with a sore muscle, it will be best if you gently force it to do what it wants to avoid. Will you let me help you do that?” * _Tread softly here_ ,* he reminded himself.

She did not answer for a long time. At last she whispered, “ I _can't_ remember…”

“That’s ok,” he reassured her. “You will, if you work on it. In time.”

She looked at him directly. “Help me.” Without a further word they shook hands solemnly. Suddenly she volunteered uncertainly, “Maybe going back to the stairs will help me remember.” She put a hand to her forehead. “But I'm tired now.” Of course. It was only natural.

“Get some rest; sleep if you can—I'm not going to need the bed.” Jarod sat in front of his laptop computer and started it.

Ana Floresita, too, rose. Totally exhausted, she went to bed as she was. She watched him type for only a minute or two before she fell asleep, as he could tell by her deep and more regular breathing. Later, her breathing changed and she twitched and moaned. Clearly the nightmares had started again. Jarod couldn’t take her hand, but he uttered generic heartening phrases into the stillness of the night. Little later, the girl calmed down and lay still again. The first dream phase was over.

Half an hour later, dark had already spread its blanket across Seacouver. Jarod was just finishing his critique of a newly released jazz album, when the telephone rang.

Without preliminaries, Duncan MacLeod's voice said: “You asked me to call you back?”

“Yes, thank you. Ana Floresita turned up at my place. She had another black-out. Something must have triggered a flashback. Do you have any idea what could have frightened her?”

MacLeod's voice went cold and dark. “Are you meddling with her psyche?” he growled. In a way, Jarod found that heart-warming. Sydney would never have … Never mind.

“No. ‘Meddling’ suggests ignorance. I've been a reconstruction psychologist, Mr. MacLeod; I know what I'm doing. Ana must have experienced a trauma recently. I want to help her. And I can.” Silence. “MacLeod, help me help her; Did you notice anything that might have frightened her?”

After another moment's hesitation MacLeod replied, “My presence, I suppose. When I entered the dojo, she ran away. Just like she did in the church.” His voice had softened, as though he felt guilty or something.

“I don't believe it was you. Else she wouldn't have gone with you in the first place. Whatever it was, it must have been in the dojo.”

“But there was nothing unusual. It always looks exactly the same. The boys know I’m particular.”

“The trigger doesn’t have to be unusual to terrify her, but it’s probably somewhere in your dojo.” MacLeod sighed. “So, would you mind,” Jarod continued deferentially, “if I took Ana to the dojo tomorrow? To try and find out?” He was overly polite on purpose. After all, this was outside their arrangement. It worked.

MacLeod replied warmly, “No, do. When will you come over?”

“When did Ana Floresita leave? Around the same time might be a good idea.”

Obviously this required a moment of reflection. “During the thunderstorm in the morning. How about 10 a.m.?”

“Great. As long as Ana Floresita doesn't change her mind, we'll be there. Either way, you'll hear from me.”

“Alright. See you tomorrow.”

“Good night.”

 

 **_[Seacouver, Duncan MacLeod's dojo,_    
****_Saturday, November_ ** **_16 th, 10.15 a.m.]_ **

To her disappointment, Ana Florestia's walking down the stairs again proved to be something of an anti-climax. Standing in the dojo at last, she demanded resignedly, “What the hell am I doing here?!”

“You're trying to regain your memories,” Jarod stated soothingly. “Well, let's take a look”—he climbed about half the stairs, watching the room—“from your point of view, and imagine the scene as it was: it was fairly dark during that thunderstorm and the lightning may have disquieted you.” For a few moments he went still, slipping into her point of view on a profound level, and exploring what she must have felt. Yes, he found, the lightning had _terrified_ her. Still, it had taken something else for her to lose control over her actions as well as her memory. But what? He shed her character and became his own self again and looked around in the dojo. “Well, from this point of view, the most dangerous-looking items I can see are those swords. Not very impressive, perhaps, with the blade covered, but… I don't know.” They had felt normal and familiar when he had simulated her a moment ago. Her mind had even provided the Japanese words for them, and sense-memories of gripping them. He shrugged. “Possibly lightning makes them look very alive.”

The girl stared at, or maybe through, the rack on the wall, as if her mind were completely blank. The rack held two swords, a katana and its shorter relative, a wazikashi. She was trying to recall… _some_ thing, by the look of her. She started toward it, growing more hesitant with every step.

“It's okay,” Jarod told her softly. “You don't have to go on; I can only ask you to. It’s up to you.”

Clenching teeth and fists, she grimly went the remaining three steps—steps of decreasing length— and stretched out her hand to grasp the katana.

The hand fell, empty. Now it was MacLeod who spoke in an encouraging tone: “Do take it, if you want to.”

Very slowly Ana Floresita lifted her hand again, took the katana. Her natural grace was gone, she moved stiffly as she slowly unsheathed the sword halfway. Then she stood completely motionless, a blank look on her face.

Jarod sauntered over to the light-switch. He flicked in on and off quickly.

Her head flew up; she almost dropped the sword when this pale imitation of a lightning was reflected by the blade. Then she smiled a small, forced smile: “I remember standing here…” She looked at MacLeod. “I noticed someone approaching.”

“My presence terrified you enough to send you flying out the other door,” he finished for her.

“It wasn't you, really. It was…” She shrugged. “Everything together, I guess. Mostly the lightning bolts.”

“Why those?” Jarod inquired.

“I don't know… I think I don't want to know. —Leave me alone, “she added irritably.

* _Careful now,_ * Jarod reminded himself, then he remarked, “I believe it wasn't the lightning itself, either, but its reflection.”

At that moment both MacLeod and Ana Floresita stiffened; the former almost imperceptibly, the latter with a visible tremble, fearful eyes darting from entrance to entrance. How extraordinary! Their hearing had to be even better than Jarod’s own, for he hadn’t heard a thing.

MacLeod turned to face the wide-open double swing doors behind him and stepped in front of Ana Floresita.

As soon as he took in the tall lean figure, the dark shock of hair above a fair-skinned face and the sardonic smile, however, he relaxed somewhat. Abandoning the fighting stance he had slipped into unobtrusively, he greeted his visitor calmly. “Morning, Adam.”

Jarod sensed a strange tension between MacLeod and Adam. They were a little awkward around each other. “Hullo, Mac,” Adam returned the greeting, before he tried to gauge the situation, “Were you giving a lesson? Am I interrupting you?”

“No. We…”

“Good,” Adam cut him short in a completely different tone. “I need to talk to you.”

Jarod watched Ana Floresita. She appeared to be a little more on edge since Adam's arrival, even though she had been disquieted from their entering the dojo. Shakily she put the sword back on its rack, and sat on the floor. Jarod went over, touched her shoulder and asked if she was ok.

Meanwhile, MacLeod had exchanged a few sentences with Adam in a low voice. Out of the corner of his eye, Jarod noticed that now they were watching him and Ana.

So when the girl told him to leave her alone, he did so and joined the two tall dark-haired men. MacLeod briefly introduced his visitor as Adam Pierson and came to the point immediately: “Adam tells me he probably knows some of Ana's story.” Jarod nodded and looked at the man expectantly.

“A friend of mine was coming to visit me. I was going to take him to MacLeod. He had said he would introduce me to his new girl-friend, and described her just like your little friend here.”

“The man never turned up,” MacLeod added.

“Which isn't like him. At all,” Pierson interjected.

“Does your friend happen to have a liking for swords, too, by any chance?” Jarod asked gingerly.

Pierson and MacLeod exchanged looks, before Pierson explained smoothly, “Yes, actually that's why I had meant to bring the two together. Why do you ask?”

“Have you heard about this boy that was found in the Port District decapitated?” MacLeod and his friend exchanged another meaningful look.

“A source tells me,” Jarod continued, “he was killed by a sword. A relatively old steel sword.” “Someone _saw_ it?!” MacLeod exclaimed.

Patiently Jarod shook his head. “No, not an onlooker.—At any rate, Ana is extra-ordinarily afraid of swords, this boy was killed by one,”—he looked at Pierson—“and your friend, who seems to have been a collector or something, has disappeared. Does that not suggest some connection to you?”

“Suggest: yes,” Pierson parried that concisely, “prove: no.”

“Well, the suspicion alone bears a little discreet investigation.” Jarod finally decided he couldn't make head or tail of Adam Pierson. The clipped syllables he spoke gave away as little as did his precise, yet restrained motions or the English accent that was impossible to locate exactly. He started to wonder what kind of impression he himself made on others.

Duncan MacLeod’s question “What are you going to do?” momentarily took him off this train of thought.

Jarod shrugged. “Investigate. Try to reconstruct. Help our young friend remember. —By the way, could you possibly show me the basic handling of such a weapon?” He beckoned toward the swords on the wall.

MacLeod drew a deep breath. “I'll think about it.” He looked pensive and wary.

The sound of Adam Pierson’s rubber soles on the dojo floor drew Jarod’s attention back to the man in the oversized knit sweater. He had strolled over to Ana Floresita.

Just when Jarod had decided that Adam Pierson might be the type who’d avoid meddling at any cost, Pierson spoke to Ana Floresita. “Ana Flo,” he addressed her in a different language that a quick dive into simulation mode identified as Cebuano, one of the many Filipino languages, “is it true that you cannot remember what happened to your teacher?”

“Go away,” the girl suddenly shouted at him, also in Cebuano. Probably her mother-tongue.

He asked her to stay calm. At that she screamed at the top of her lungs that she couldn't and wouldn't stay calm, when her life had gone to pieces. Unperturbed, he told her sternly, “Put that anger into controlled motions, and you'll be more of a fighter.” She fell silent, stunned.

Jarod was taken aback. This didn’t fit with the image of Pierson that he had formed a minute ago. Who, or what, was this guy?  

__

_**[Blue Cove, The Centre,** _  
_**the same day, at 11.12 p.m.]** _

The telephone rang. “Sydney?” It wasn’t the first call of this kind, and so far Dr. Sydney Greene had been able to keep them off the record. He stayed behind in the evening on purpose so he’d get a chance to talk without Miss Parker or Broots listening.

“Jarod!” Dr. Sydney Greene was delighted to hear his protégé’s voice again. “Where are you?” Meaningful silence. “Jarod, do you realize you got us into jail? We were arrested for framing a blackmailer you had uncovered.”

“Sorry, Sydney. You imprisoned me so long that I have little sympathy left for your mishap.”

“I presume you didn't do it on purpose.”

“No. I had better things to do at the time.” One could hear the grin in his voice: “But that definitely is an idea.” Sydney sighed. “Tell me, Sydney, are there many Pretenders outside the Centre?”

“The Centre certainly cannot isolate all of them.”

“I mean, have many been released?”

“I have no idea. None of my subjects have been, as far as I know. And you are the only one that released himself,” he finished with a trace of bitter humor.

“I'm sure the rest would like to be free, too,” Jarod replied angrily and rang off.

 

In another room of the Centre, Broots took the headphones off and sighed. “He knows exactly how long it would take me to trace him. He always hangs up too soon. This is no good.”

 

\------------- Footnotes-------------

 [1] There also were cards about Miss Parker's mother (“ _Good is not a ‘thing’. You can neither touch nor own it. No, Good is a vision we all share and strive to make real_.”) and father (“ _Light creates shadow; light destroys shadow. Such is the transience of darkness_.“), Mr Raines, Mr. Lyle, Centre Cleaners, Pretenders etc.

[2] What Ana happens upon here is the episode "Deathwalker" from the series “Babylon 5”, in fact. (Jha'dur is called “Deathwalker” by races she and her species made suffer terribly.)

[3] ASD=Acute Stress Disorder, PTSD=Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder; both are triggered by traumatic experiences. At first the Stress reaction would usually be ASD which later turns into PTSD.


	7. Excursion

_**[Seacouver, Duncan MacLeod's loft]** _

At around the same time another telephone rang. Duncan MacLeod lifted the receiver. “Hullo?”

“Duncan, where have you been?!”

When he recognized the voice, he smiled tiredly. “Anne. I've been…” No, he didn't want to explain. “Look, I'm sorry I didn't call about that ‘Kid Walk’ yet.”

Anne's Kid Walk project consisted of walks she organized for children of the poorer areas of Seacouver, like the so-called “Zone”. Those walks were supposed to teach the children about something in a fun way. She had asked MacLeod weeks ago if he would help her with a ‘Kid Walk’ on nature and survival. At the moment he wished he hadn't agreed.

Anne said frankly: “I didn't dare call you earlier. I was afraid you might be … gone.”

“I'm still around,” he answered softly. After a while he added: “You didn't cancel the Walk today, did you?”

“No. It would have felt like … giving up on you.” Ouch.

He nodded. “Well, then let's give them a good Walk!”

Anne sighed. “I wish I could. But Mary has just got sick with a fever…” Mary was Anne's baby daughter. “I'm afraid I can't come. I'm so sorry.”

Duncan was hardly feeling up to keeping a bunch of children under control on his own. Even so he tried to cheer her up. “Don't worry, I'll take it in hand. I'll try and find someone who will come along. You take care of Mary. Okay?” While saying good-bye he suddenly knew whom he could ask.

 

 _**[Seacouver, by an Inner City bus station** _  
_**Saturday, November 16 th, 1996, at about 1.45 p.m.]** _

“Hi, Jarod. Thank you for coming at such short notice. Where is Ana Floresita?”

“She said she needed time to think about this morning. I can't blame her. She didn't look very well.—Look, there's the first one coming.”

“I'm not feeling as fit as I'd like, either.” Mac Leod glanced at Jarod. “We'll keep it shorter than I had planned originally. Tell all the parents we'll be back by 5 p.m.”

 

 **_[in a wood just outside Seacouver,_ **  
**_later the same day, at about 3.30 p.m.]_ **

The weight of depression grew as they walked through the little wood with almost a dozen children. Thank God Jarod did a lot of the talking. He had proved surprisingly knowledgeable. At the moment he was saying: “Look at that tree. That's a birch. Do you know what makes this a quite wonderful tree in a cold and wet night?”

The children had no idea, of course. No one knew nowadays. Well, next to no one.

“Come on, think about it: What would you want in a cold and wet night?”

One boy mumbled: “A warm blanket.”

“Great idea, Simon.” Jarod had known each kid by name within less than ten minutes. “What else would you long for?”

“Shelter and fire,” a bored and rather fat boy with sun-glasses said.

“Very good. Only it's a wet night. Where do you get dry wood for your fire?”

“The birch?”, the fat kid ventured uncertainly.

“Exactly! You gather birch branches that lie on the ground. They are easy to recognize because of this thin white skin they have. You peel them, and inside they are quite dry. Actually, if you’re a REALLY clever bird, you peel a stick at the start and keep the peel in your pocket at all times. It burns like paper when it’s dry. Now who can spot a birch?”

With Jarod's enthusiasm and humor, odd bits of information from both men, and a snack of wild blackberries they kept the children interested and entertained for another hour. The bored boy It was already getting dark when they returned to the bus station where they were to meet the parents again.

They were asked several times if this Kid Walk would be repeated any time soon. Duncan firmly denied them a definite answer. All he wanted was to be alone for an hour or two, and then to meet Amanda.

 

 _**[Seacouver, in Jarod's flat,** _  
_**at around the same time]** _

Ana lay on the floor, exhausted.

Feeling an urge of danger she could not afford to explain to Jarod, she had been meditating during most of the afternoon. She had had to calm her own mind, to keep fear at bay, every so often.

That had been almost more exhausting than trying to remember more of the past few months. Now she was spent, body and soul.

She needed to do something relaxing. Her gaze fell on the unused TV set in a dusty corner. She went over, plugged it in and turned it on. To her surprise it actually worked. Perhaps Jarod didn't like watching tv. There was no remote control, but she didn't really care. She was happy to let something— anything—relieve her of the burden of thinking about her own affairs. So she sat on the bed and watched the screen coming to life.

Within ten minutes she was engrossed in the story taking place on a fictional space station[1]:[2]: There, the much-hated brutal Jha'dur, last of her cruel species, offered the recipe of a fluid granting immortality in exchange for asylum and immunity for herself.

Immortality. Ana shook her head and mumbled: “Don't take it!”

But the humans and other races in the story agreed on a deal with Jha'dur. She was flown to earth. A mysterious race, however, intercepted the flight, blowing up the ship. When their ambassador explained this action with a flat “You are not ready for immortality”, Ana sat before the screen, wide-eyed and breathless.

A few minutes later she realized the next film had started already. She turned the TV set off and unplugged it again. When she started meditating this time, her thoughts went along new, and strangely relieving, lines.

 

 **_[Seacouver, in Joe's bar,_ **  
**_in the evening of the same day]_ **

The jam session was nearing its climax, the music loud and cheerful. The only person still sitting at the bar was Adam Pierson having a quiet, if animated, chat with Joe Dawson.

“What do you mean by that: ‘I can be anyone I choose to be’?” Jarod's voice made Adam spin around and mentally curse his negligence. But how could Jarod have overheard what he had said half a minute earlier?

“What makes you think he said that?” Joe inquired. “You still were on stage a moment ago.”

“I'm sorry.” He turned to Adam. “I didn't mean to pry into your affairs. I just couldn't help overhearing you.”

Clearly the situation called for a light tone and the mild manners almost everyone associated with him, Adam decided. “Well, I only meant you simply are what you choose to be.”

Somehow this answer did not seem to quite satisfy Jarod. “I see,” he muttered lamely and reluctantly changed the subject. “Can I have a Fanta Lemon again, please?”

Adam gave him a pensive look, then he added: “Like you chose to be a musician—you're good at it! Your ocarina lends the session a special flavor. It's not as easy to play as it looks, is it?”

 

His smooth, intelligent, yet somehow quite non-descript air left Jarod pondering him a good while again after Pierson had been joined by a beautiful red-haired woman and had left with her.

 

Duncan MacLeod, too, looked pensive. His thoughts had gone astray in a quite unexpected direction while he listened to the music:  

Age. Sometimes one wondered whether it really mattered. Physically, age would not change him. Nor had it for the past 400 or so years. Methos was at least a dozen times as old, and yet he didn't seem… But then, Methos never was what he seemed.

He pulled himself together and concentrated on emptying his mind, stilling his stray thoughts.

 _*Listen to the music, as though it were the wind brushing over the Highlands. Watch the water of little streams, in your mind, bubbling laughter endlessly between stones, grass and heather.*_ Tessa had made him young again. The unruly thought shot through his mind like an arrow, leaving a wave of pain in its wake. He sighed. It felt like that memory…

It was there—suddenly and inexplicably vivid: the boy with his baby sister, playing peek-a-boo. This time the image remained crystal-clear as he held on to it. The scene didn't change, the little boy remained intent on making the baby laugh. Obviously he loved her dearly, probably proud to be her big brother. Duncan wished he could share that feeling.

Suddenly the picture cut into his heart, causing nameless anguish. With singular determination he still held on and locked his mind in on the picture. The scene ended in his mother—foster-mother, to be exact—calling him in to dinner. His memory showed her now: waiting, both impatient and with a certain satisfaction in her eyes. Another wave of pain washed over him, unduly intense, almost four centuries after her death.

The image was gone, and he realized a single tear was running down his cheek.

 

 

Suddenly he recognised the song the band was playing. He knew its lyrics:

 _This is the evening of the day_  
_I sit and watch the children play_  
_Smiling faces I can see but not for me_  
_I sit and watch as tears go by_

That was it.

It was so simple that he hadn't thought of it: The sadness that had taken hold of him for the past days was about children. About the fact that he couldn't have any. No Immortal could.

It wouldn't do to tell Amanda about it and remind her that she had the same burden to bear. But holding her close tonight would help.

 

After the last set of the jam session, Jarod sat by the bar.

“MacLeod left you this,” Joe said, handing him a short note.

It said: “You asked me if I'd teach you the basic handling of a sword. If you happen to be up at this kind of time already, come around at 5 a.m. MacLeod.” Jarod smiled and thanked him. While sipping his last drink he contemplated the note.

 

 **_[Blue Cove, a private fencing club,_ **  
**_the same day, roughly at 10 p.m.] ?????????????????? DIANA_ **

_Swish!_

The elegant weapon whipped toward her and stopped an inch from her neck.

Miss Parker gave a throaty laugh: “Very good! At last I've found a fencing partner that doesn't bore me.”

****

**_[Seacouver, Duncan MacLeod's dojo,_ **  
**_Sunday, November 17 th, 5 a.m.]_ **

They met at the dojo.

Duncan first asked Jarod what he would like to learn. Jarod's answer, however, struck him as virtually impossible. “You said you wanted to learn all that within what? Half a day?” Duncan's tone of voice was both dismayed and incredulous.

“I'm a fast learner,” Jarod answered simply. Clearly he was perfectly serious.

The strange thing was, he had struck MacLeod as quite level-headed so far. And Duncan had observed him closely before agreeing to teach him anything, of course. It left him more than a little puzzled, but he gave in for the moment. “Very well. I certainly cannot guarantee that I can teach you all that so quickly. But we'll give it a try and see what we can get done.” His voice changed, grew darker, carrying the merest hint of menace, yet was very matter-of-fact. “Now, if you want me to step up the pace it will also mean that I am not going to be a very kind teacher.”

Yes, it was a warning, no less. But Jarod already knew that MacLeod's teaching methods would never equal the Centre's in cruelty. So he smiled and answered softly: “I know.”

Duncan cocked an eyebrow at him and, despite himself, smiled. “I hope so.”

He left the room for a moment, returning with a bokken, the hardwood replica of a katana, in each hand. He handed one to Jarod and explained: “For starters you will use the bokken. However, keep in mind that this is a weapon in its own right. It has been said, even, that the bokken is more dangerous than the sword. Be careful with it. You must understand it doesn't take a blade to do severe damage,” he cautioned gravely.

Then he moved beside and away from Jarod and raised his bokken, ready to perform a kata.

MacLeod said: “I'll do a simple exercise. Now, try and move with me to get a feeling for it.”

Jarod watched, then closed his eyes and became Duncan.

Eyes shut, his mind focused on the wooden sword, yet very conscious of his surroundings, he felt the way he must move in his very bones, trusting his expertise. Thus, they moved in perfect harmony. He was surprised to find the kata soothing rather than aggressive.

Duncan stopped abruptly, astonished. “I have never once seen anyone learn as fast as that.”

Jarod answered very quietly: “I didn't learn. I imitated.” That was not quite true, but as close to the truth as he dared go. It was a relief to say that much, at least, even though he knew it was dangerous to be honest.

He longed for someone he could be honest with.

Duncan MacLeod seemed a good choice. He had the distinct feel of someone that was capable of, and used to, keeping a secret to himself. He would probably respect another doing the same.

MacLeod eyed him curiously: “There is more to you than meets the eye.”

Jarod broke into a smile and shrugged: “There is more to _you_ than meets the eye, as well.”

Their eyes locked as each tried to fathom the other's thoughts.

Finally, Duncan asked what he meant by that and got a surprisingly straight reply: “My impression so far is that you are a dangerous man. Dangerous, but trustworthy.”

He answered that in silence, with an old-fashioned bow.

 

 **_[Seacouver, Inner South District, in Jarod's flat,_ **  
**_in the morning of the same day]_ **

Ana woke with a start. Feeling something in her hand, she lifted a leaden arm and looked. The hand held one of the cards Jarod was so fond of. Its quote made her smile: “Do not fear adversity. Let your courage be your strength.” He encouraged her with some such quote every day.

**_[Blue Cove, The “Centre”,_ **  
**_the same day, at about 10 a.m.]_ **

“A parcel for Miss Parker.” Broots took the parcel and told Sydney that it was from Jarod. He opened it gingerly.“Wow, look, Sydney! A whole role playing kit! Jarod must have kept real busy doing all that stuff.”

Sydney smiled indulgently and watched Miss Parker approaching. She sneered at the parcel's contents and Broots equally. Broots, not having noticed her yet, found “character sheets” for each of them. “He wants me to play a tiny, fluffy-winged fairy with a magic wand,” he said dubiously.

Miss Parker couldn't help grinning. “Ooooh! Good. At least he knows I'd have killed him for giving _me_ that part.”

Broots jumped at hearing her voice. He handed her a sheet and explained with a slight stutter: “You're a warrior. And you”—he turned to Sydney, only a little less uncomfortably—“a necromancer.”

Sydney cocked an eyebrow at the sheet and asked. “And what are we to do?”

“The goal is…” Broots shuffled through the sheets. He found another sheet with a little story and read it quickly. “Basically, it says here we've been told to ‘Find the Elusive One’. I suppose that means ‘Find Jarod’, then.”

Miss Parker dropped her sheet impatiently. “Now _that's_ new!”

_**[Seacouver, Inner South District, in Jarod's flat,** _  
_**in the afternoon of the same day]** _

“Trust me. Please.”

Somehow Ana found it easier to do so, now that Jarod spoke to her in Cebuano. “I'll try.”

“Let's start at the beginning again: Have you always lived here?”

“I don't think so… No.”

_**[Seacouver, in Joe Dawson's flat,** _  
_**late that afternoon]** _

Joe Dawson was cleaning up in his tiny flat, when there was a brief knock at the door, and Adam Pierson burst in.

“Adam! What the heck are you doing here?”

“You won't believe it: I need your advice.”

Dawson was surprised, indeed, and not very happy to hear this request. “What? Why?”

“Is it possible for Immortals to suppress their buzz?”

“Why? —And why would I help you?”

“Because MacLeod might be in danger.”

Dawson's expression changed from vaguely hostile to worried. “I don't think we have any record of an Immortal who could do that. But then, there always has to be a first time.”

“Great,” Pierson commented dryly. “And your own opinion?”

“Though I hate to say it, I think it's possible. But I believe that gifts like that don't usually come without a draw-back.”

“Usually, you said it. This guy isn't exactly usual.”

“Who?”

“I think his name was Jake Spring. No, Jared Spring. You seemed to know him when I encountered him at the bar.”

“Jarod Spring?” He swore wholeheartedly. “And I put them in touch!” His eyes widened slightly, his knees gave way. He staggered to his bed and sat.

“Joe,” Adam asked concernedly, “are you alright? What is it?”

“You know what? When I met Spring I felt sure he must be an Immortal. With the years, Watchers get a bit of an instinct for the way Immortals behave… —But there was nothing in the records, and since Mac couldn't sense him…”

“We have to tell MacLeod.”

 

 _**[Seacouver, Duncan MacLeod's dojo,** _  
_**two hours later]** _

“So Spring might be an Immortal, after all?” He thought for a while. “Then he'd have to be an amirable actor.”

“He wouldn't be the first one to deceive you. For an Immortal, you're exceptionally trusting,” Pierson observed.

MacLeod looked at him, coldly furious. For the fraction of a second, Dawson thought he would attack him. Instead, he answered meaningfully: “I know I have wasted trust on people that weren't worthy of it.—Most were, though.”

It was beyond Dawson why Pierson had hinted at this uneasy topic at all, since now he pretended not to note what was being said between the lines. “Spring _might_ , just possibly, be worthy of it. But if he is Immortal, then he _can't_ be trusted. Be careful around this guy.”

“If he is,” Dawson suddenly asked, “what do you think he wants?”

Pierson was the first to put the answer into words. “Either Mac or the girl.”

“And what if he was the one that got Kenny?” * _And what,_ * thought MacLeod suddenly, * _if he were really hunting Amanda?_ *

 

 _**[Seacouver, in Joe's bar,** _  
_**at the same time]** _

Amanda was waiting for Joe. She had meant to ask him a few things before she met MacLeod here.

The barkeeper had told her Joe would surely arrive in half an hour at the latest. So now she was enjoying a long drink and an excellent view of an attractive man in a black leather jacket.

She was watching him impatiently. He had noticed her and smiled back once. Since then, however, he had concentrated on a little red notebook and some kind of card deck. * _How dare he ignore me like that?!_ *

 

“Hey, Tim! —Oh, I'm so sorry! I thought you're a friend of mine. Silly of me. Can you forgive me?”

Had she wanted to, Amanda thought, she could by now have relieved the stranger of both his wallet and his watch without his noticing. But she was more interested in getting his attention. And now that her hand lay on his arm, she finally had it, one hundred percent of it.

His smile was charmed and full of warmth. “Only if you'll forgive me for not being your friend.” There was something about the way he looked at her that she wasn't used to. Not from a man, anyway.

She lifted her glass: “To friendships that may yet be.” Her alluring smile died away when Jarod didn't respond in kind.

He pocketed the card deck carefully.

All of a sudden she knew what was the matter with his gaze: it lacked in desire.

Usually, men undressed her with their eyes. In circumstances such as these, anyway. That he didn't do so felt good, but it also bothered her.

Actually, he looked puzzled. The Centre had forcibly taught Jarod both to display his emotions, heedless of his inhibitions, and to keep them under tight control. Yet when this dark-haired woman with the frivolous glint to her eye had begun to flirt with him, he had been at a loss for a suitable response. He felt helpless, wondering what to do. Well, he'd have to play this by ear.

“What's the matter?,” she asked.

He apologized, rose and lifted his own glass. “To friendships… That's a lovely motto.”

“By the way, I'm Amanda.” She clinked her glass against his.

He answered, “And I am…” Unable to react, she saw his glass slip from his hand, fall and land on the table with a loud bump. The robust softdrink glass didn't break, but its content was spilled on the table as well as the man's clothes. “…wet,” he finished with a self-conscious grin. “My name's Jarod.”

* _At last_ ,* Amanda thought contentedly. Aloud she said, “You'd better get this sticky stuff out of your clothes quickly, you know.” Her hand slid over his damp trouser leg.

He shrugged. “Don't worry. There is practically no real fruit juice in it, and sugar and water won't ruin the fabric.” He sat calmly and offered her the seat opposite him.

Both frustrated and intrigued, she sat.

Just then Duncan MacLeod, Adam Pierson and Joe Dawson entered the bar together. When MacLeod saw who was sitting at a table with Amanda, he stopped short.

However, he did not approach the two. He merely shot Dawson and Pierson a glance. The shake of his head was barely perceptable. He waved to Amanda and Jarod as he sat by the bar, apparently calm.

 

Joe took the hint and busied himself in the stock room, while Adam stood beside him and asked casually: “So?”

“He could have killed me before, you know. I don't think he's hunting me. Nor Ana, on consideration. He could have killed her just as easily.”

“I see. That leaves Amanda. Or me, for that matter. Or Richie. Or…”

“I know, thank you,” the other snapped.

A small glass filled with amber liquid appeared in front of MacLeod. Joe gave Adam one, too, and held another himself. He looked worried.

“Calm down, Joe. Sooner or later she'll join us,” Adam mumbled. “To Amanda.” With this quiet toast, they downed their Glenmorangies.

 

Amanda did, indeed, join them soon enough, though not on her own. It was a secretly relieved Jarod who steered her toward the bar.

“Hi,” he beamed at MacLeod and company. “The lady here tells me you are friends.”

“Hi, Amanda,” Dawson and Adam Pierson greeted her with a smile. MacLeod went beyond that.

When the tall woman felt his hand slip around her, she smiled amusedly. * _He must be jealous._ * It was nice to be shown that somebody cared about one like that. It made her feel warm inside. She was inclined to giggle all evening, enjoying MacLeod's attention and his feather-like touch on her slim back.

It was a matter of course that Amanda went home with MacLeod later.

 

 

\------------- Footnotes-------------

[1] There also were cards about Miss Parker's mother (“ _Good is not a ‘thing’. You can neither touch nor own it. No, Good is a vision we all share and strive to make real_.”) and father (“ _Light creates shadow; light destroys shadow. Such is the transience of darkness_.“), Mr Raines, Mr. Lyle, Centre Cleaners, Pretenders etc.

[2] What Ana happens upon here is the episode "Deathwalker" from the series “Babylon 5”, in fact. (Jha'dur is called “Deathwalker” by races she and her species made suffer terribly.)

[3] ASD=Acute Stress Disorder, PTSD=Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder; both are triggered by traumatic experiences. At first the Stress reaction would usually be ASD which later turns into PTSD.


	8. Adult Insertion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of innuendo and love-making - if you'd rather not read anything remotely sexual, skip this chapter, and you should be fine.

_**[Seacouver, Duncan MacLeod's dojo,**_  
_**late at night the same day]**_  
Since they had reached the loft, none of them had spoken. Amanda was sipping the tea Duncan had handed her, while he merely stood by one of the windows, watching her. At last she grinned: “What?”

“Nothing. I'm just glad you're here, with me.”

She smiled frivolously and crossed to him, setting down her cup on the window-sill. Her fingers danced up his side, caressed his neck, pulled him closer. He returned the smile and kissed her. Experienced fingers nestled at her back and opened the zipper. He retrieved the flimsy bra skillfully while leaving the dress in place, laughing. Amanda giggled along happily. There was a sweet tension building up in her belly that yearned for release. He pulled her collar a fraction away from her neck, drew it down further, inch by inch, and kissed the skin he exposed—from her neck down, until…  
  
Finally her stringy body was clad only in her milky white scarless skin, one of her most valuable assets. MacLeod rose and surprised her by scooping Amanda up in his arms. It was less of a surprise that he carried her to his bed. She laughed, enjoying herself immensely. Gently he set her down. Then he stood and watched her for another moment, before he sat beside her. He leaned close. “Whatever God may be,” MacLeod said romantically, tracing the exquisite curve of her collar-bone, “sometimes He's a dashed good designer.”  
  
The next morning, when MacLeod was taking a shower, Amanda joined him unexpectedly. At first he was not very welcoming. But when she smiled insinuatingly and, while stroking his chest, reminded him of “the night in Sienna: a very hot bath and a solitary ice-cube…”, he gave way at last. As she kissed him, she allowed him to discover that there was an ice-cube involved, indeed. Then she bent her knees, kissing his chest, his stomach, his belly…

It was a lovely morning.


End file.
